


in the curve of your soul (here you are again)

by Lliyk



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Folklore, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Blood, Shamanism, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lliyk/pseuds/Lliyk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dry my dreaming but still, iris blue each spring—yunho comes to terms. changmin makes mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haeym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haeym/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wolfsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/345749) by [glitterburn (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn). 



> with huge thanks to glitterburn for granting permission, this piece is for the loveliest H in lieu of our little [christmas fic exchange](http://liderlig.livejournal.com/37470.html). ♥

 

 

_on a windswept hill by a billowing sea, destiny sits—baptized in red and fated to burn._

 

* * *

 

 

 

the bar is dry, dimly lit with an orangish glow hazing against the shadows, the most prominent smell that of spilled alcohol both new and old, soaked into the walls. the smell filters out oppressively, noticeable like the thickness of the air in a cramped room on the hottest of summer days. patrons hunch over their tables, the only sound throughout the faint hum of lyricless music and the melancholy murmur of lulling conversation, spiked with the occasional shout of anger—ones that subside as the bartender leisurely refills drinks and mutters placatory reassurances with a tone that speaks of indifferent ease.

yunho has an inkling that, if he wasn’t on the cusp of being grossly and completely wasted, he would hate this place. he’s hunched over like all the others, nursing his soju as if it were a newborn baby. he cradles it, takes a nice, bitter swig every few seconds.

he’s not used to drinking, unlike those in his odd spectrum of friends who make a point to get irresponsibly smashed every weekend. a sip of wine at christmas, maybe a flute of champagne at his sister’s wedding, sure, why not; that’s the extent of his drinking. of all days, though, this time it seems appropriate.

there is no way he will ever be able to commemorate with just prayers, or a jar of paper cranes, no ceremony to remember the day by, nor the people to commiserate. those who understand extend and end to his immediate family, and even then they only offer sympathetic gestures and increasingly annoying motivational one liners. they try, and he loves them still, but all the same it never, never helps.

memories cling like soaked through cotton to even damper skin, and nostalgia rushes thick through his veins like avalanching mud.

there in lies the reason for tonight. tonight is to help not think. tonight he’s decided to get wonderfully, gloriously, irresponsibly drunk and luckily, it doesn’t take much.

almost two bottles of soju in and already his vision is a blur, his hearing as if halfway underwater and his taste buds comfortably, oddly, numb and non existent. the bar he chose turns out to be perfect in the fact that it’s a hole in the wall seemingly made especially for those just as miserable as himself. he won’t be running into any of his friends for a night out, and he will not be tempted and wooed by tipsy young men and even tipster older women; he won’t be heckled and harried by notoriously talkative bartenders.

tonight he is alone with his soju, his thoughts, and the unyielding attempt at forgetting. with each sip the haze grows, contentment settling in his bones with a warmth like love and a comfort like nothingness. it’s sticky and hollow and clingy. he hates it.

he promises himself to pick up the pieces tomorrow, to trudge through the hang over to be and pick up the pieces with ginger care like the shattered shards of tiny glass they are. he promises to smile, remember, and move on, purposely and quietly leaving out next year, and the year after that. he has never been the person to mope for too long, for years and ages and forever; he is strong, but he figures this one thing is the exception. later, he promises. later, he will make his life as excellent as it can be, the ninety mile per hour curveballs it throws at him be damned.

he looks down the neck of the soju bottle, the taste of nothing on his tongue, and nods sloppily.

it takes a moment for yunho to notice that someone joins his table. a man who silently slides into the seat, clothed in a tailored navy trench coat, staring at him intently and a little blurry around the edges. all of yunho’s usual friendly instincts are muted; he doesn’t offer any form of greeting, just manages to lift his eyes and gazes right back. the man’s hair is dark and wavy and curling about the sharp cut of his jaw. his mouth is wide and beautiful, the notch of it rendering his features impassive, but it’s the deep, glinting gold of his eyes that send a sliver of warmth through yunho, a spark of a connection. probably the alcohol.

finally, brighteyes speaks, and his voice makes yunho want to shiver. “you are new here.”

yunho takes a clumsy swig of his soju. “yeah.”

“this place isn’t made for young boys.”

some mild, drunk offense takes hold in yunho, and he frowns dramatically, petulant. “i’m twenty six.”

“a child.” it’s said evenly, factually, laughter almost evident.

yunho snorts, takes another sip as he notes the drink brighteyes has clasped in his hand, a dark glass with a frothing, darker amber liquid inside. yunho watches intensely as brighteyes takes a well mannered sip, golden gaze on yunho’s face the entire time.

“well,” yunho says, seeing the peek of pinstripe underneath the trench coat. “this doesn’t look like the place for rich businessmen either.”

amusement gleams in brighteyes’ stare, but his mouth doesn’t reveal even a ghost of a smile. “i am not a businessman.”

yunho shrugs, hunching his shoulders and fingering at his almost empty bottle. fingerprints smudge against the gritty green glass, and yunho frowns at it fuzzily. isn’t glass supposed to be pretty?

“are you wearing contacts?” he blurts, blush heating his cheeks as he lifts his stare.

brighteyes’ face doesn’t move an inch, even a milimeter, but yunho has the feeling that he’s shocked. that, or offended in his somber silence.

yunho gets the answer to the question he should have asked.

“i was born with them.”

the statement sounds odd, like it holds an ironic, dirty secret. it muddles through one ear and out the other, and all yunho gathers is the present ‘no’ hiding in the tone.

“oh.” yunho says, awe in his stare as silence slices between them again. a beat, and he makes to stand, to order another, but brighteyes waves him down and strides to the counter with steady, even steps, legs long and gorgeous and graceful. yunho watches him as he orders another soju, and then another drink for himself.

“i owe you,” yunho mumbles when he returns, taking the new bottle thankfully.

“you do not.” brighteyes replies shortly. “call it a thank you for the conversation.”

“not good conversation,” yunho replies, awkward, the words heavy on his numb tongue. the room is hazy still. yunho finds himself silently quoting a prayer.

“better than most,” brighteyes assures.

yunho nods and slides the cold, dewy bottle to his chest, dampening his the lapels of his hunter’s jacket, turning the worn tawny brown material to wet black, curious. “why are you here?”

“perhaps the same reason as you.”

yunho remembers the glint of sweetheart cut diamonds and the feel of his chest without the ache. yunho remembers grooming through too many black fabrics and black colored stationary with  _you’ve been cordially invited_  embedded fancily across the front in shiny swaying letters. yunho snorts.

“doubtful.”

brighteyes raises a brow, the arch of it touching behind the fringe of his dirt dark hair. “enlighten me.”

this time yunho remembers in full pictures instead of snippets, vivid color. he thinks of purity. respect. love. he thinks of a fierce woman with even fiercer feelings, about soft affections of friends that once were and the aggressive loyalty of comrades come to pass. he thinks of bonfires and the murmur of conversation surrounding them, of long fought for togetherness. he thinks about the past.

“i had everything,” yunho says plainly. “and i lost it all.”

brighteyes studies him for a moment, intense and stoic, but yunho is not deterred by his coldness. tears sting behind his eyes, threatening to leak, and he violently pushes them back. this is supposed to be the night where he stops, closes, shuts, and and locks the door, tosses the key into the trunk of his memories. crying over it won’t accomplish that.

“i have everything.” brighteyes replies, surprising yunho. “and yet i still have nothing.”

it’s lamented, like the ending of the sentence has been tacked out for later use. yunho takes a second to study that, to sluggishly taste and linger and ponder. “how?”

yunho thinks brighteyes makes a face, he’s not entire sure what to call it. a bare twitch of his wide, sensual mouth, the strongest expression he has yet to make. it’s sweet and bitter and riddled with sorrow, in a single movement of muscle. “i sometimes wonder that myself,” he says.

yunho blinks, confused, and shrugs. he fills the silence with another swig from his bottle, the edges of his face and the tips of his fingers unusually but not unwelcomingly numb.

brighteyes leans over the table, a minute movement that doesn’t even seem to happen, and says, “you are drunk.”

“’m not,” yunho protests weakly.

“you are.” a blink. “but perhaps i might be, too.”

“you don’t look it.” yunho mutters resentfully. no one looks that impeccable when off the rocks, not that collected.

another twitch of his mouth, and yunho’s gaze is drawn to them with a slow snap of attention. brighteyes’ lips are something else, pillowy and sexy even in their minuscule movement. attraction simmers up yunho’s gut, and he tries to wash it down with another drink of soju.

“i have had ample time to learn to compose myself.”

“there’s no way you could be a single day older than me,” yunho says, drunkenly indignant and playful. “you don’t even have wrinkles.”

“i age well.”

yunho glares without irritation and it’s more of a pout than anything. a tingling turns into pressure inside of him, and blankly, stupidly, he announces, “i have to go to the bathroom,” before trying to stand and stumbling instead, foot catching on the leg of the table and almost upturning their drinks. he grabs for the edge, and in a span of time yunho seems to miss, brighteyes is there, too close and holding him up. he is there and  _familiar._

“okay,” yunho admits. “i might be a little drunk.”

“mmn.”

yunho clutches at the other man’s forearm, sheepish, let’s himself be escorted in the direction of the restroom. he pushes through the door clumsily. it’s empty and dimmer than the bar itself, and he almost slips, lurching into the nearest stall. balance eludes him and he’s all but forced to grapple onto the toilet paper dispenser to keep himself upright as he knocks down his jeans and relieves himself.

he wakes up a little when he does a quick job of washing his hands, waving them dry as he makes his way out of the grungy restroom. he revels in another bit of drunken awe as feeling returns to his fingertips, the air turning cold against his skin from the water, only to stop short.

brighteyes is there again, standing, waiting for him patiently.

“don’t have to help me,” yunho grunts, vaguely uncomfortable. “i’m a pity party on my own.”

“no, i don’t,” brighteyes replies, extending a steadying arm once more. yunho takes hold of it anyway, that simmer starting up as he notes how steely and unbendable the other man feels beneath his weight. yunho gives a sputtering thing of a giggle at the thought of him working out. for some reason he can’t imagine this man—this man who has walked from the front line of a fall fashion show in his navy trench and fitting trousers that tuck neatly right into those boots, oh no, yunho hadn’t noticed the boots, oh  _no_ —sitting in a gym, pumping iron.

brighteyes quirks an eyebrow at his outburst. yunho shakes his head.

they reach their table but yunho stays standing, swaying slightly as his eyes widen and he remembers, whispering like it’s of utmost paramour. “i needa pay my tab.”

brighteyes looks at him, hold a gentle kind of firm, gaze slightly shadowed by a combination of his height and his fringe and the bar’s bad lighting.

“it’s paid for.”

“oh,” yunho blinks at him for what seems like the millionth time tonight before a moment of comprehension takes effect, almost startling him into movement. “ _oh_! no! no no—” yunho extracts himself into a bit of his own space and pats down his jacket, brows knotting together. “i’ll have to pay you back. i don’t think i have that much cash on me, but—”

“that won’t be necessary. keep your money.”

yunho stops to look up blearily, his hand around the faded leather of his wallet tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. “you’re sure?”

“quite.”

“uh,” yunho’s brows stay snapped down. “thank you.”

“don’t dwell on it. here.”

yunho stumbles as he’s steered to the exit of the bar, casts a forlorn glance over his shoulder at his half full bottle of soju. it’s gone behind the swing of the bar’s door. they’re outside. the frigid winter air hits him, makes him clutch tighter, seeking warmth. “where are you taking me?”

“i will escort you home.”

yunho frowns. “but you don’t know where i live.”

brighteyes comes to a stop. he looks down at yunho, his stare blazing. for a moment, yunho thinks his eyes turn impossibly dark, black, but he forgets it when brighteyes lets his twitch of the mouth turn into a full smile.

it tilts his features, and it is breathtaking.

it is wolffish. a sweet flash of teeth and sickly so. it sends yunho’s heart hammering loud, blood rushing in his ears, attraction igniting up his body with a harsh, abrupt slam that nearly has him reeling, nearly has him missing what brighteyes says next.

“you will tell me.”

yunho’s throat tightens. that smile never wavers. arrested. caught. yunho feels his veins catch fire like kerosene. he can’t fight whatever that is seizing in his chest out of his control. he doesn’t think he wants to.

yunho exhales. it’s a shuttering, bated breath.

“okay.”

in one moment he is a careful step behind brighteyes, in the next he is buckled up and brighteyes is driving. yunho blearily wonders where the time in between went, wonders if it actually even occurred; he doesn’t remember getting into the car. he doesn’t remember the car itself at all. the thought of that teeters to the back of his mind as the city lights blur by, another pressing in on the frame of his skull with a feeling of unwanted shame and dread: he does not want to return to his family home. even in his inebriated state he does not wish to lie in his too little bed and think about the empty black velvet box stuffed into the back of his closet, or the gold threaded rosary hanging from his bed frame.

“i don’t want to go home.”

brighteyes glances at him, the sidled look revealing nothing.

yunho slumps against the car door, forehead pressed uncomfortably against the cool glass window. had he given the other man his address already? his mind draws an abyss like blank. he doesn’t remember, and either way he won’t be giving it out now.

the car pulls to a stop, and yunho notes with silent relief that it is not at his family shrine, but at a gate hinged on tall cement-plaster walls that demand privacy. the gate opens with a muted metallic creek. they continue forward, and yunho peers out the windows with a childish curiosity.

the scape is that of a traditional garden, one that surrounds a large traditional house, out of place in the crowded, bustling city. for some reason, yunho finds himself unsurprised, just with the nagging notion that he should be dressed in old silk shoes and even silkier hangbok as he slumps in the car, parked beneath a towering, barren willow.

yunho sucks in a deep breath, barely noticing as he’s lightly grasped by the elbow and led up a stone path. it stops right at a wide stone porch, set before elaborately woven hanok doors. yunho picks out the pattern in the threads, stares at the intricate carvings along the wood, sighs distractedly.

“come,” brighteyes says, and yunho realises with a bit of a halt that he does not know this man’s name, just the one he’s silently given him. he glances up at brighteyes’ calm, if not stoic face, set in all of its movie star beauty, and wonders why he approached him, why he is being so kind.

they slip through the hanok doors, and yunho follows, stepping carefully when the hand holding him by the elbow falls away, letting out a tiny surprised little sound as their fingers link. brighteyes’ palms fit in his in a way that makes his heart flutter; they’re smooth and cool, slightly rough around the edges. familiarity and nostalgia cocktail, but yunho deems himself too tipsy to try and take a deeper drink.

the hall blurs. yunho finds himself swaying in a barren room with a low bed and a few tapestries—traditional. he looks down at their delicately woven hands, stares at them as they seemingly portray war, battle, swordsmanship,  _something_.

“i’ll leave you here for the night,”

yunho says nothing at first, whispers almost desperately as brighteyes’ hand slips from his. “please wait,” he says quietly, aching. “i don’t want to be alone.”

yunho frowns, wondering about himself; this is not his normal, he is never one to make selfish requests. alcohol burns in his stomach, loosens the latch on his tongue that he usually so carefully keeps. the words come forth before the thought comes to mind.

“ah,” he starts. “no, nevermind, i didn’t really mean—”

brighteyes does not move away, clasps their hands once more and leads yunho to the bed, helps him lower to it instead. yunho feels ill mannered next to the other man’s stature as he slumps on the bed and brighteyes sits on the floor beside him, legs crossed and back straight. yunho stares, warmth eating at him, then turns himself, crawls over and shifts into his lap. brighteyes tenses further, brittle as glass, but yunho melts against him, watches as brighteyes knuckles rest on his knees and turn pale with tension.

“i don’t even know your name.”

something  _rumbles_  in brighteyes’ chest, but yunho is watching his mouth, and he says nothing.

the sound is familiar, too, makes yunho feel fuzzy and simmer with the byproduct of yearning. in a flicker of something dormant inside, he desires touch, the warmth of another giving comfort. brighteyes could’ve been an elder. a woman. a puppy. yunho does not care, he just wants the feeling of another being pressed against him—tangible proof that he is not actually alone.

brighteyes is tense and uncomfortable, but he turns feverish and responsively  _pliant_  when their lips brush. his mouth becomes hot on the juncture of yunho’s neck and his fingers become just rough enough as they run up yunho’s thighs, move to his waist, pushing away his jacket and gripping the cloth of his sweater in tight fists. yunho shivers at the nips against his jaw, against the lobe of his pierced ear, down the plane of his shoulder. brighteyes places butterfly kisses everywhere he can reach, lighter than a feather’s fall, scorching with something that screams of an ache, a need, a beg.

yunho twists, and brighteyes’ arms wrap around him in the same second yunho locks his legs. lust turns into tangible waves of heat, the feel of brighteyes’ cock straining through his pants and pressed against the back of yunho’s thigh. a nervousness sparks in him, tiny and soon washed away by the fog of alcohol. yunho demands a kiss, and brighteyes tastes sweet, like coke and whiskey. the scent of him washes through yunho, earthy. savory. spicy.  _good_ , and yunho drinks it in as they press closer, not close enough. he let’s it intoxicate him on another level, runs his hands through brighteyes’ hair, tugs just so as he rocks, wishing he could merge into him like summer and sunlight.

yunho’s sweater is pulled off, jeans undone and tossed away in a movement he can’t keep up with. he catches a glimpse of bright gold eyes in his haze, arches as he feels lingering kisses over his collarbone, down his sternum, at the swell of his pecs and over his nipples.

electricity strikes up yunho’s spine, and then more of that abyssal blank, a slot of time gone missing. brighteyes is beside him on the bed, bare from the waist up, trousers unbuttoned and hanging low, dim light from outside glinting against the sharp cut of his hips, shadowing the chiseled planes of his body. yunho’s hands find brighteyes’ biceps, firm under his hold, and he can’t help but run his tongue, gently scrape his teeth against his sweet tanned skin. brighteyes trembles beneath his touch like he’s been  _waiting_.

yunho feels powerful.

a blank. a blink. brighteyes is between his legs, and yunho is made of fire. brighteyes’ mouth is hot against him, tongue shameless in attention as it slicks up, stretches, has yunho gripping at the duvet, floating on a cloud of light and dark, pressured down with an overwhelming sense of  _gods, yes_.

only once has yunho felt so wanted, but never before has he felt so singular. this man, with bright eyes and no name—this man that yunho does not know, for the moment, for now, he carries his heart at his fingertips.

abyss. yunho is squirming, and brighteyes is hovering over him, staring down with impossibly darkened eyes and a glint in them yunho cannot decipher. everything is too warm, air thick, lush in the humidity of their bodies. brighteyes settles himself between yunho’s thighs, lashes fluttering down.

in a motion of his hips he slides in, stretches yunho wide with a quiet, shaky moan. yunho is not prepared for the burn, or the shot of electricity that weaves through his bones and crackles against his skin, and he whimpers.

yunho feels every line and ridge of his cock as brighteyes shifts, and his whimper scores louder, a shout of uneven pleasure and pain.

“how long?” brighteyes whispers through gritted teeth.

“years,” yunho tilts his head back, carefully rolls his hips in a way that ebbs the pain away and makes him want more, says, “years.”

a beat, brighteyes makes a move, as if to go away, and yunho locks his ankles, clings, looks at him through hooded eyes and the smog hanging over his mind.

“please,”

brighteyes looks pained, like he wants to, and his eyes flutter shut before he withdraws with a growl. he eases back from yunho and rolls away, snatching his pants and tugging them on with rigid, frustrated movements. yunho sits up, draws the duvet over himself defensively as the want in him simmers down to nothing, previous waves of shame roiling through and making him nauseous. he feels stupid suddenly. tired. he snaps his mouth shut, willing the bile to stay down as he becomes lightheaded. the image of gold eyes and another time flashes before him, and he breathes out, horrified, tears gathering behind his widened eyes. he remembers.

“changmin.” he whispers to himself.

the sound of dressing stops.

brighteyes is grasping at yunho’s arm, forcing their eyes to meet.

the images falls away. yunho doesn’t remember anymore.

“ _what did you say?_ ”

yunho blinks, stills, confusion prominent in the furrow of his brow. he mutters. “a name.”

“ _what_  name?”

brighteyes' expression is hard, intense, unfrozen from it’s thus far impassive features. yunho feels overwhelmed, and damn exhausted.

“lost,” yunho says, almost a whisper. “some—a—i don’t know. a name.”

pants on, shirt open and unbuttoned and hair messy from yunho’s touch, the sharp underlying aura of rage in brighteyes pours from his body. it eases his shoulders, knocks out the intensity in his brow but leaves the look in his eyes, one that’s guarded and there all the same. hollow, fatigue.

“i’m sorry,” yunho spits out his urge to apologize, meek.

“why?”

“i don’t even know your name.”

brighteyes pauses, studies yunho’s face, hungry, pained, something almost desperate. his hand lingers on yunho’s calf thoughtlessly, writing something there yunho can’t figure out.

“sleep,” brighteyes says. his voice is husky, thick with lingering need, but it is no less demanding.

whatever that is, the seizing come back to yunho’s chest, that overbearing sense of  _want to_  and  _giving in_. exhaustion crashes, pulses through yunho’s veins with it’s own demand, and he thinks sleep is an amazing idea. yunho burrows under the sheets, not bothering to fish for his own clothing. the low bed is comforting, still warm with the body heat of two. sleep comes in the form of bleak darkness before his head even touches the pillows.

he thinks through the fog that, maybe, someone is stroking his hair.

 

yunho wakes, disoriented, lost, laying naked tangled in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room and dangerously hung over. the pain in his skull is accompanied by the dull pulse of his blood in his ears, mouth dry and stomach rolling more than the few times he’s allowed himself even remotely near roller coasters.

sunlight shafts through the window, one with traditional hatching and glass panes set in between. yunho doesn’t recognize the tapestries, though he thinks he remembers them from the night before. he doesn’t remember the window either. it’s seemingly one of the many things he’s forgotten.

he rolls over, a halted whine escaping at the aches the movement beings to his attention. on the other side of the room is another hanok. beside the bed, his clothes are laid in an oddly neat pile, even in their rumpled and unfolded state.

a sharpness flickers up his spine ever time he shifts. his back aches. his ass is sore.

a flash of memory. a bar, a person, a drive, a kiss so chaste it burned—

“shit.” yunho lets his eyes shut, voice barely above a whisper and broken. “ _shit_.”

a wave of anger crashes at him. he balls his fists in the duvet. he wants to hit something, to break something, to purge himself. a layer of dirt feels like it’s starting to coat his skin; he is  _not_  the one night stand kind of person, how could he let this happen to himself?

he doesn’t even know his name.

carefully, gingerly, yunho extracts himself from the blankets and scoops up his clothes, wincing at a tiny spotting of dried blood on his inner thigh and tampering the urge to vomit. he dresses quick, enduring the aces in an infliction of self punishment even as the room sways and his fingers shake.

“shower,” yunho promises himself, wanting to wash away the awful feeling intent on sticking to him. for a moment he allows the thought of knowing that a shower won’t help. not how he wants it to.

yunho ties the laces on his shoes and leaves.

 

 

*

 

 

yunho keeps his powers mostly to himself, carries the magic of his ancestors in his blood, magic made to protect. he found out after an exceptionally shitty day at school when he’d come home and shattered the mirror in the bathroom with a look, one of the shards cutting beneath his eye and down his cheek. it blooms through him miraculously because he is a boy, his mother told him. he had been fifteen then, and his litte sister had been jealous. the scar has since faded.

despite it’s apparent uselessness he still practices it when he is home at the family shrine, taking use of the range behind the yard and focusing his energy into the tips of arrows. his aim is deadly, and his power burns violet, splintering targets into nothing but jagged wooden chips. he does it after performing his part time shrine duties, swathed in the traditional grabs of a monk and hair clipped back, sweeping the grounds and greeting visitors. the rest of his time he spends working at the city library organizing books and indulging in historic fiction. ridiculous, and he knows better, but he has nothing else. trying to keep his blood under wraps had him barely graduating high school.

it’s not as if he can go back to his apartment. he could, really, he could grab his keys and leave his family home, but not during this time of year. not when the date seems so close again.

curled up in his childhood room, yunho can’t veer his mind away from that…  _mess up_. he isn’t the one night stand kind of person, it’s just not something he  _does_. tawdry isn’t really in him like that, especially with someone he completely doesn’t know.

yunho peers out of the window and stares at the moon, crescent in shape, barely peeking through the clouds and leaking light through the naked branches of the holy tree standing tall and ancient in the shrine courtyard.

only a few years ago he had been living life as normally as possible, considering. now it seems as if the ship is tipping upside down, waiting for the sun to pass the horizon and the sea to flip to its will.

funny how things work out.

a week passes. yunho sits at the front desk of the library, absently running his fingers through his hair as he pours through anther book, one of war generals and ancient japanese folk lore, extravagantly woven together. the smell of ink and paper and book musk soothes him, and he doesn’t resist the urge to take a deep breath, sigh it out. he spins in his chair, mood light as he hears the sound of rustling plastic come from the back room.

“yunho,” his boss greets warmly.

“mr. park,” yunho smiles back, laying his book aside and moving to help the old man with his lamentation load.

mr. park is barely to yunho’s shoulders, a gentle old man with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and a wide smile for everything. he’s rolling the laminations into tubes, sliding them into long plastic containers and stacking them on the table in the middle of the room. the table itself full, ladled with books yet to be re-shelved.

“my wife made us lunch,” mr. park says, gesturing to the tied up boxes next to the plastic containers. “just simple kimchi and rice, so don’t worry about paying us back.”

“i’m sure you won’t mind if you find yourself a few bills richer when you head home tonight. you pay me well enough,” yunho laughs lightly, rolling the last lamentation and unstacking the the food. simple kimchi and rice is an understatement, but yunho accepts it graciously, following mr. park out to the front desk. yunho resumes his seat, clicks through the registry and munches lazily. to his side, mr. park sits with a torrid romance propped up by an old, english text.

something sets yunho on edge. an odd prickle at the base of his spine, a vivid sense of awareness. it’s a spiritual itch he can’t scratch, and it raises his hackles. he stops eating. his eyes narrow as he stares at the computer screen, seeing nothing. the feeling grows stronger, stronger still—

yunho looks up, and feels the blood drain from his face.

even with his hazy memory he can place the man. no one forgets eyes that compelling, or that  _mouth_.

yunho sets his chopsticks down, movements slow, and turns back to the computer. anyone else he would greet regularly and without issue, but he knows himself, and he knows that he cannot face brighteyes. not now.

“mr. kang!” mr. park greets excitedly. “it has been a while my boy.”

brighteyes— _kang_  nods, though his gaze slides to yunho. his expression doesn’t change, but yunho feels the violent need to retract, back up and put distance between them.

“mr. park,” kang replies, calm and smooth and at a comfortable ease as he regards the elder. “i think i’d like to make a trade.”

mr. park chortles, almost giddy in his joy. “you never change, no? you realize this is against regulation.” mr. park winks at kang, quirks a trickster grin at yunho. “i’m sure yunho won’t tell.”

kang looks at yunho again, and yunho’s blood returns to his face, warm and annoying in its blush. “no sir,” he mumbles, turning to stare blankly at the computer screen.

mr. park laughs again, stepping from behind the desk and leading kang to one of the back rooms, the one with closely monitored antique books and scrolls, never open to the general public.

kang slides yunho another undecipherable look, and yunho makes a point to pick up his chopsticks and start eating, using his free hand to pretend to type something into the computer, only succeeding in opening a number of pages he’s never even seen.

mr. park leads kang out of sight, and yunho lets his face drop into his hands, fingers knotting at his hair, staying there and tugging.

“ _idiot_.” he growls. sighing, anxious, he makes himself busy again. he puts the lid on his lunch, no longer hungry, and exits out of the randomly opened pages before clicking through the registry again.

thirty minutes ticks by shortly. the door to the antique room opens and kang comes following mr. park out, both holding slim, parchment and plastic wrapped packages.

“always a pleasure to do business with you, mr. kang,” mr. park says, eyeing his package with an excited glee. “i just wish you would visit me more. i’m getting old, you know that.”

kang smiles an almost smile, a minute upturn of his mouth that makes yunho’s heart skip, his spine straighten. “i know.”

for a moment yunho’s reign on his power fluctuates; his aura crackles, electric under the surface of his skin. beneath his palm the computer mouse goes warm with the surge, and he pulls his hand away.

mr. park waves a hand around his face. “it’s a good thing yunho is with me. he’s one of the smarter ones. boy lives on a shrine, you know! right up your alley, yes?”

“surely,” kang says dryly, and mr. park laughs like it’s an old joke. yunho smiles, almost demure, and wishes his stomach would stop churning. his skin feels hypersensitive as he wraps his power up in extra chains of precaution. his sweater feels coarse against his skin. heat rises in his chest.

kang turns away from yunho and tips his package in a small salute to mr. park, “i’ll be back soon.”

“i’ll be waiting,”

kang gives yunho a small nod, eyes bright with something yunho wishes he didn’t understand. “jung.”

yunho’s shoulder blades sting with pain as he tenses further, spine racked straighter still and breath coming out small and shallow as kang walks through the glass double doors, movements made of grace.

mr. park hums an odd, knowing hum. “that boy will never change.” he turns to yunho, brow raising as he takes him in, smile widening. “you’re fairly glowing,” he says casually.

yunho doesn’t respond, eyes intently staring out at the front doors, wondering how brighteyes knows his name.

 

after his shift, at home in his childhood room, yunho sits on the floor, black box and golden threaded rosary resting in front of him. the rosary had come in the box. the box itself remains a mystery to yunho, one he never has the actual urge to solve; the box wasn’t given to him, or found or purchased, it’s something he has always just… had, even as a child. it’s his, and there’s nothing else about it.

yunho rolls the rosary beads between his fingers, the gold gleaming in the low light from his bedside lamp. a sense of familiarity runs through him, comfort. it reminds him of something. something—

a name.

outside, a cloud glides by. late sunlight filters through his bedroom window, slanting harshly and dancing along old posters, the kind of light that reveals specs of dust and makes you cozy, helps you think. yunho brings his hands up to a slash of it, watching as the beads gleam a soft violet, flickering as he pushes and pulls his power through his fingertips, a tide that only he controls.

 

 

*

 

 

the pastry shop is cluttered, a murmur filling the atmosphere. yunho sits at his own little table, the table cloth as gaudy as it is neat with the daisies decorating the edges. yunho taps his fingers against his mug, mind focused on his novel as he waits for his tea to cool.

yunho thinks maybe it’s the atmosphere, or his preoccupation with his book that makes him miss the spark in the air that he’s this identified with brighteyes. yunho doesn’t notice him until he pulls out the chair across the table, sits and folds his gloves hands atop its surface.

yunho zeros in on his mouth before anything else, a muted pulse of attraction thudding at the base of his spine, but he is soon distracted by his eyes, bright, intense and calm and calculating, golder than the sun. yunho feels his heart squeeze and his hands tremble, and he presses his fingers to the smooth pages of his book in distraction. brighteyes has on leather today, a studded bikers jacket and gloves and boots to match. his jeans are distressed and frayed. his hair is knotted with a black string, and his fringe is starting to fall loose. yunho swallows. he looks like he stepped of the runway and knows it.

brighteyes says nothing, and yunho manages to find his voice, says, casually, “do i need to get a restraining order?”

it seems to make brighteyes pause, amusement flashing in the highlight of his stare. “no.”

“but you  _are_  following me.”

slowly, brighteyes gives a nod, features smoothing over. “yes.”

“why?”

“curiosity,” brighteyes says simply, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug.

yunho feels heat flush through his system, rushing in his blood. he looks at his hands; they’re glowing violet around the edges.

“i don’t even know your name,” yunho pauses, thinking of the other day, and revises. “your first name.”

brighteyes is staring at yunho’s hands.

“not necessary at the moment.”

“at the moment?” yunho scowls. “i think it is. you knew my name—somehow.”

brighteyes tilts his head slightly, almost like a puppy studying something it doesn’t understand, and avoids the last part of yunho’s comment.

“max.” brighteyes says, blinking. “you may call me max.”

yunho snorts. “max kang. seriously?”

“quite.”

the feeling of awkwardness claws up around them. yunho sighs, suddenly tired. “so,” he murmurs, trailing off, nothing to say.

“i am not a threat,” max says, quietly, almost gentle. he’s looking at yunho’s hands pointedly, still glowing purple.

“aren’t you?” yunho tenses, sucks in a deep breath at the flood of panic rising in him; no one is supposed to  _know_. his body feels too warm, filled with useless adrenaline, like it knows there is something about brighteyes’ aura, like he isn’t exactly of this earth. yunho stares hard at brighteyes. the other man’s features are calm, unsurprised, gentle even. yunho looks him dead in the eye.

“ _aren’t you?_ ”

no sound, no movement, and then just the minute shake of the head, honest and plain.

perhaps, maybe, this just is what people feel with their ever present accidental one night stand is around. yunho snaps a mental chain and replaces it with a new one. the glow subsides.

yunho stares still, assessing, ten ticks of his watch, and finds the energy to lessen the stiffness in his posture.

“listen,” he starts, moving to something, voice thick even as he forces himself to relax. “about the other night—”

“it is acknowledged. we don’t have to talk about it.” max says, and yunho hears the softness in his tone for the apology that it is. “i am sorry, nevertheless.”

a sharp pain mixes with the relief at yunho’s shoulders. “okay,” he finally says. his tea is cool now, and he takes a sip. “why are you here?”

“you are a shrine monk.”

yunho raises a brow. “what of it?”

max smiles that almost smile. “i have never been able to get close enough to a monk of your stature to research their practices.”

yunho frowns, eyes narrowing. “we are not exactly uncommon, why would you need me?”

“because you are not a just monk, you are a shaman and you are one of  _power_ ,” max says, something urgent coloring his voice. “not the kind that sweep the steps and tell fortunes.”

their eyes fall to yunho’s hands in unison, and he finally moves them under the table to fold in his lap. max’s fingers tap leisurely against the table, the only sign of his own awkwardness at the situation.

“your purity was not effected,” max says, wonder evident.

yunho beats down the urge to blush. “never has been,” he mutters, averting his eyes. he tries not to think about the fact that he has seen this man, naked and glorious and wrung with want.

“that’s good.”

yunho looks up, brows knitting, mouth thin. “i don’t trust you,” he says, steely resolve flooding around the familiarity that has made itself at home in his mind and body. “you’re hiding something,” he goes on, frustrated. “you had your cock inside of me and talk to me a few days later as if you expect me to forget about it. i don’t fucking  _know_  you and i am  _done_  with this conversation.”

a muscle twitches in brighteyes’ jaw, his features iced over and still, body gone rigid with tension and something simmering in the depths of his eyes, now darkened to a swarthy amber that yunho thinks can’t possibly be natural.

“i’m leaving now.” yunho announces unnecessarily. he stands, collects his book, and only spares half a thought to mourn his unfinished tea.

max stands as yunho leaves, watching him, and yunho feels his gaze on him long after he leaves the café.

he lets himself glow violet around the edges, not caring who might see. it helps him burn off the feeling of being studied.

 

yunho dreams that night. he dreams about someone he thinks he knows but can’t reach, a man with a sensual wide mouth and black eyes wearing a gold threaded rosary and hovering over his bed. the man strokes a strand of hair from yunho’s face tenderly, like a lover. yunho wants to touch him, to speak to him, to taste, but he is paralyzed, left to watch from the confines of his bed.

“why won’t you wake up,” the man asks, frustrated, desperate, shadows crossing over his face like cobwebs. the shadows blur his features together in a visage of gold and black, long, long dark strands of hair teasing yunho’s bare shoulders “why won’t you come back to me? are you going to leave me alone again?”

yunho wants to scream, wants to shout until his throat bleeds,  _i waited for you, and you were changed! what about me? why not me? why didn’t you change me?_  but nothing comes out of his mouth. he’s frozen, eyes heavy with tears, burning with the need for the other man to understand.

yunho feels another caress at his cheek, a brush by his lips as the other man leans down, soft and sensuous and achingly familiar. yunho can feel the hallow sting of sorrow resonate into him, of loss. yunho can’t see his face in the throes of darkness. he wonders if he ever could.

“i’m sorry love,” his dream whispers, touch velvet, warm against the line of his jaw. yunho wants to claw at him, to pull at his hair and merge their bodies into one.

his dream ceases, and yunho wakes up gasping, body covered in a thick sheen of sweat, cold, tear tracks wet on his face. he rests his hand in his hands and chokes back something sickening.

“what the fuck was that,” he groans, trying to pull back the image of his dream, that man, that  _name_. his body reacts, like it knows of the adoration that was shining in those black eyes, and all that comes to yunho’s mind is an abyssal blank, a flat photograph of nothing. he can’t remember, he can’t remember, he can’t—

yunho feels thick heat spreading down his arms, fingers, and he looks up. he’s glowing again, the violet so bright it bleeds white, blinding and reeling out of it’s chains.

“ _what is happening to me?_ ”

the glow brightens, and yunho feels fire explode within him, a sheer blast that washes away all of the negativity, sadness, fear. his power creates a wave of raw nuclear purity, and in the same second he is left in the dark, drained and empty.

yunho collapses into his bed, wondering how and when he had become so unstable.

 

day comes, and yunho stumbles around like a zombie the moment he leaves his bed. he skips breakfast completely, not responding to the concerned comments of his mother and sister. he goes to the library, assessing the stacks of books blankly and without thought. patrons come and go, and he greets them mechanically.

yunho is  _tired_.

he hardly notices when max enters through the library doors with a bang, yunho’s only warning being that flicker of a spark that fills the cavity of his chest when the max is anywhere near.

“you,” max says lowly.

“me,” yunho responds, will power to say anything else or send him away evaporated into nothing. max’s usually sweet sun kissed skin is paler than usual, almost clammy looking. yunho blinks at his usually well put together appearance; his clothes are impeccable still, but max looks rugged, haggard.

“you need to control yourself.”

“too bad i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“you do.”

yunho slumps in his seat, hands falling from the stack of books in front of him. “no, i don’t.”

“you almost purified the entire fucking city last night. that’s what i’m talking about,” max snaps.

yunho stares, words not exactly registering, vaguely mesmerized by the display of emotion across max’s generally calm and collected features. “so?” yunho says slowly.

max’s lean figure tenses, rigid with rage, and in an unseen movement he is behind the reception desk and grabbing yunho by the bicep, pulling his limp frame from the office chair and dragging him to the supply closet, slamming the door behind the both of them. the tiny flicker of flame in yunho’s chest grows, roars into an inferno, and the edges of him glow violet again, casting the tiny space in shadows.

max squares their chest, taller, gripping yunho by the shoulders. a sizzling noise fills the small space, and max  _growls_.

“control yourself!” he demands, giving yunho a solid shake.

“i can’t.” yunho snaps back.

“you  _have_  to. you are my responsibility and i will  _not_  allow you to self destruct.”

anger spikes up yunho’s bones. “i don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, get your hands off of me—” the putrid smell of burning flesh halts him, and he glances around, frustrated. “what  _is_  that.”

“you are murdering innocents with your tantrums,” max presses, frowning hard, eyes lit with fire.

“how?” yunho demands.

“do you honestly think it’s just humans that live in this city? that your kind are the only ones roaming the earth?”

yunho freezes.  _demons_ , the things of legend, told at bedtime by his grandparents and his mother. real? so  _close_? how could they be hidden—yunho has grown up to believe them extinct, to believe that the magic in his blood is useless—that he is and has been  _alone_ —

his powers flare, and with a pained snarl max is forced to release him, pushing back against the far wall, hissing in pain. yunho’s skin crawls with crackling purity, bolts and beams of light that beam, harsh and pulsing like lightning.

“yunho!” max snaps. “you will  _kill_  them!”

yunho feels his heart shudder, pause. what if there are children of their kind? what if they’re people he knows? yunho feels his body scream for release, chains snapping one by one. he pressing his back to the wall, tastes copper in his mouth as he wrangles his power inside, replacing every snapped steel chain with a titanium one, sealing the energy back into his core. his skin tingles. his bones ache. blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, tinted with a violet glow, and his head spins. bile rises in his throat. yunho presses his hands to his chest, feels tears sting the back of his shut eyes.

the tension falls out of his body with a pained whimper.

the glow subsides.

a sob racks the back of yunho’s throat, raw and burning, and he slumps down the wall to the floor, fingers twitching, blood smeared across his cheek.

“max,” he keens, voice going, quiet, pained. “i’m sorry.”

max leans against the far wall breathing harshly, disheveled, staring down at yunho with hooded eyes and a glint of something awe inspired and hungry.

“i’m pretty sure,” yunho says, trying to even out his breathing, feeling his ribs burn as left over sparks of magic crackle down his skin. “that this is all your fault.”

the accusation is met with silence, the air warm with aftershocks.

“come,” max says after a moment, two, lifting yunho to his feet like he weighs nothing and making sure he can stand.

they exit the closet, the library just as empty as it was before. yunho stumbles to his office chair and slumps into it, raking his fingers through his hair. max takes the seat next to him, somehow looking much more composed than before.

max’s nostrils flare, and he raises a hand as if to touch yunho, then stops, fingers curling into a fist as it falls to his lap. max flicks his gaze away. “there’s blood—”

yunho curses under his breath, turns off his computer screen and uses the dull reflection as a mirror. the taste of it is thick in his mouth, and he stands, slugishly makes his way to the bathroom and cleans himself up. he feels nauseous as the red water drains down the sink, and he leaves the bathroom with quicker steps.

“you are much too powerful for this era,” max says as yunho takes his seat again. max gingerly stretches his hands, blisters on his palms, and sighs. “this is going to take a moment.”

yunho stares, heart quickening. “you’re a demon.” he states harder, somehow unsurprised and somehow unafraid.

“of a variety,” max says dryly; he opens his mouth, and yunho watches in unconcealed awe as his canines elongate, deadly and sharp. “yes.”

“i thought i was alone,” yunho confesses, eyes still glancing between max’s teeth and then hands, watching how the skin peels back, folds, heals, knits together slowly to leave nothing behind, how his teeth shorten back to human lengths. he’s never seen anyone’s body heal like that but his own.

“you are.”

yunho frowns. “but—”

“you are not a demon. you are not one of us. you could destroy entire demon races with a single misplaced burst of power. why would they consider you one of them?”

“i would  _never_ —”

“you almost did.”

yunho feels his insides burn with shame and a bout of self inflicted hatred. max is beyond right. he almost erased entire lives. innocent ones at that.

“you are the  _last_  of your kind with any kind of power.” max states. “you are alone.”

an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, of that familiarity slams through yunho. something about max’s voice. his mouth. those  _eyes_ , so black rather than their capturing gold. it waves through him, there in a second and gone in the same.

“i don’t think that matters to me.” yunho says, a satisfying ring of resignation scoring through him; max’s kind are innocent, living normal lives like everyone else, and his powers will  _remain_  useless. “there are others like you and they are  _real_.”

“i want to make sure your control over your power is stable.”

yunho frowns at the sudden demand. “why?”

something dances across max’s eyes as he pauses and tilts his head, once again reminding yunho of a curious puppy.

“because i will be forced to kill you if it isn’t.”

unafraid at the declaration, the thought almost  _welcoming_ , yunho thinks of how max was forced away from him when his purity reached its brightest.

“would you be able to?”

“well,” in a echoing rush, the fear comes, like a cold douse of water. there in that spread of time, max looks like a nightmare, like a predator keen on playing with it’s prey. the temperature drops. yunho’s skin suddenly feels like ice, clammy. his lungs can't catch air. his throat burns. slow, max’s eyes bleed back to gold, and even slower, his mouth tugs into a smile, as breathtaking as the first one. yunho can’t breathe, and max’s blisters are gone.

“i wouldn’t underestimate me.”

the ice floods out, instantly replaced by warmth that leaves yunho’s body tingling. he gasps out, inhales so sharply his teeth burn with cold. “i didn’t know it affected anyone,” he coughs. he tastes blood again, and max looks unimpressed. “i’ll control it.”

“i will not take your word for it.”

yunho tenses, hand over his chest, bewildered by how offended he feels that max does not trust him. “i didn’t  _know_.”

“i haven’t made it this far through trusting people. certainly not humans.”

snappish, frustrated, yunho turns in his office chair, confused by the ocean of hurt emotions filling his throat. “whatever.”

"i’ll be in contact to make sure this doesn’t happen again."

“oh, so you’re going to keep stalking me, wonderful.”

“human...” max murmurs in warning. yunho notes that it is not without an undertone of mirth.

yunho waves a lazy, tired hand at max. “you don’t know anything about me.”

the mirth in max disappears in less than a second. tension stills him, quick and brittle. his jaw ticks, and without a word, he stands. yunho watches him, feeling that inferno in the pit of his stomach, a whisper of a memory burning at the forefront of his mind.

max leaves the library without a backward glance.

 

 

*

 

 

spring is fast approaching, and yunho leans on his broom, staring up at the budding branches of the holy tree in the shrine courtyard, glimpses of green and pale yellows catching in the breeze. thick patches of sunlight fall through, warming his traditional monk garb, making reflection spots dance across his eyes every time he glances upon a shadow. yunho lets his eyes shut, indulges in an old childish dream of standing on the highest branch in the tree, looking out over the city like a king admiring his subjects.

a flicker. something whispers behind yunho, and he turns his head.

max is there, fringe caught in the soft wind, wearing dark wash jeans and a crimson sweater and looking movie star gorgeous, leaning against the storage shed, watching.

“mr. kang,” yunho greets civilly.

max inclines his head without a single word.

yunho returns to his sweeping, wishing he could grab at and hold his elusive taunts of memory, bring them to the forefront to see, to  _know,_ but there is only one thing yunho can think of with max there, and it’s of the way he had touched him, like a lover.

 

 

*

 

 

the next time yunho sees max he is walking home to his long abandoned apartment from the library for the fist time in months, hungry and considering a visit to a noodle stand when he notices max watching him from a slip of an alley, eyes darker than usual and wearing all leather again.

yunho stares right back, sighs and then approaches him, vaguely annoyed.

“if you’re going to keep this up you might as well cut the creepy shit and  _join_  me.”

max smiles that almost smile. “i am not your friend.”

yunho rolls his eyes. “that doesn’t change the fact that i know you’re following me around? besides, i’m not exactly the best at ignoring people. join me.”

a playful breeze tugs at the dark locks curling about max’s jaw. max studies yunho like he’s a walking challenge, and for a moment yunho can’t help but let his mouth tug in pride.

“i’m getting ramen,” yunho says, walking away, unsure and uncaring if the other will follow. he grins to himself when he notices max’s presence at his elbow.

“so,” yunho glances at max from the corner of his eye, gaze trailing to those long, long legs. “when are you going to admit that it’s ridiculous to act subversive when we both know you’re there?”

“i’m not,” max says slowly.

yunho snorts, catching sight of an empty booth and bee-lining for it, leaving max to follow at his own pace.

warmth hovers around the stand like a comfortable bubble in the cool spring evening. yunho huddles against the counter while he orders, and he turns to max expectantly.

max raises a brow, as if to ask yunho if he’s serious. “i do not eat human food.”

the old man behind the counter makes a face, mumbling, "the hell does that mean," and stares before bouncing his shoulders in a shrug. yunho orders for max anyway.

“don’t worry about it,” yunho says as he watches the old man prepare their bowls. “it’s on me.”

max’s lips tighten, and he looks at yunho silently as their bowls are slid to them, steaming against the chilled air. yunho takes his with a thank you and makes himself comfortable on a nearby bench, max only a few steps behind him. yunho eats in earnest, watching max from the corner of his eyes. max eats in slow, controlled bites like he's holding back, graceful, almost like royalty.

“since you’ve decided to stick to me,” yunho says wryly, twisting his chopsticks. “why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

a pause, then, “no.”

yunho looks up in determination. “how about why you were getting drunk in a hole in the wall bar?”

“vampires only get drunk on two things. i assure you that alcohol is not one of them.” max says, looking at yunho, frowning a bit. “also no. you wouldn’t understand.”

yunho rests his bowl in his lap. “try me.”

max’s eyes grow darker as he stares at yunho. something burning starts in the depths of his gaze.

“i was hunting.”

“hunting?”

“i do not eat human food yunho, i eat humans  _as_  food, and food is best served warm.” max grins, a wide, wicked, and dangerous flash of teeth. “i like the flavor of alcohol in mine.”

yunho reels back,  _away_. “you were going to  _eat_ me?” he yells, startling a few passerbyers.

max does something that makes yunho sit ramrod straight, eyes wide and mouth parting in surprise, dazzled:

he tilts his head back and laughs. it’s rich, and thrums through yunho, lighting him up on the inside. max lets his laughter fade into an honest smile, one that steals yunho’s breath and makes his heart hammer.

he forgets what he asked, and max doesn’t deign to give a response.

yunho finishes his food in an awe-struck stupor, fingertips tingling and an unnamed emotion stinging his chest, memories whispering at the back of his mind. max is quiet at his side again, features smoothed over.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” yunho asks, as max stands, riddled with an ache to hear that laughter again.

max’s gaze slides to yunho, black and fathomless and without a trace of gold. yunho can’t read him, but he thinks he sees at least a spark of camaraderie in his stare.

perhaps not.

max disappears in a flicker of wind without a word, leaving yunho to return both of their bowls to the noodle stand.

 

yunho is confronted by his mother at breakfast, off guard and sleepy enough to give honest answers.

“yunho,” his mother murmurs, placating. “you’ve been quiet lately.”

“sorry mama,” yunho says distractedly, looking up from the reflection of his tired eyes in his cooling tea. “i’ve been preoccupied.”

mama dries her hands with a dish towel and slides into the seat across from him. yunho looks at her, noticing the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, the sprinkling of gray hair starting at her roots. she is aging, and yunho didn’t notice until now.

“i know things have been harder this past end of the year, with your father’s anniversary,” mama says quietly, mouth turned down. “the past few years have—well, your sister, grandfather and i are here for you.”

“i know.”

mama smiles tiredly. “have you thought about school again? it’s never too late.”

yunho offers a wry smile, thinks about how he barely attained his high school diploma, and all of the odd jobs he’s had between then and now.

“i’m happy at the shrine. the library, too.”

“is that so?”

“it is,” yunho laughs lightly, deeming his tea cool enough to sip from. “i swear mama, i really don’t think college would work. i’m not even interested enough in one thing to be studying.”

mama frowns, gesturing to the book left open at yunho’s side. “what about history?”

yunho thinks about the books he’s poured through, about how he went through the scrolls in the library, ones that, after max telling him there are others, hold little of interest since they only have information about humans. plague. war. only in the scrolls and fictional books of mythical variety was he even close to reading or learning about demons and the otherworldly, or other humans of his kind.

“no, i don’t think that would be wise.” yunho finally says with a nod. “thanks though.”

yunho’s mother sighs and shrugs silently, an  _i tried_  gesture, the cursory attempt at helping someone aside from knowing the attempt would fail from the very beginning. yunho chuckles into his tea, and finishes his breakfast, saying thank you to his mother before slipping out the door.

with slow energy, yunho makes it down the shrine steps in what he counts as record time considering his sleepiness. he can’t help the lingering feeling that his mother’s worry is entirely directed at him, despite his rush.

 

 

*

 

 

the shrine grounds have been swept twice over, the flat stones smooth of the thickening leaves of the holy tree. yunho leans against his broom, reveling in the small victory of having done his chore so well, enjoying the breeze weaving its way between the openings of his traditional grabs. he has the place to himself for now, jihye attending her classes and his mother with his grandfather at a late doctor’s appointment.

yunho is alone, and for once he doesn’t mind it.

he glances around, making sure that no worshipers have snuck by him without noticing, and then props his broom against the low stone wall near the holy tree. he hitches up the pants of his attire and grabs at the first branch writhing reaching, giving a little grunt as he lifts himself up. he climbs the holy tree gingerly, remembering the right books and crannies to hold from when he was a child with mindless determination. he stops halfway up, finding a branch to settle on. his reflexes are sharp enough from his martial arts days, something he never seems to lose. he straddles a thick branch and lets his muscles ease, leaning against the smooth bark of the tree. 

yunho presses his palms to the branch, closes his eyes, and concentrates.

energy tingles at his fingertips. the tree pulses under him, alive, connecting him to the earth in an intimate ebb and flow of natural power. yunho feels the breeze in his hair like the wind through tall grass, feels droplets of rain on his skin and cool waves wash over him where the ocean meets the land. ages pass through his mind, images of the times before and of the places the tree’s roots are connected to.

the tree guides him three years back, a bright summer day that yunho remembers vividly, old warmth of the sun present on his skin and his chest squeezing tight. the tree shows him his father, hours before he died. 

the tree shows him his father’s grave.

yunho lets go of the connection with a sharp intake of breath, muted sadness slamming against his rib cage, anger and pain. he watches his hands glow and fade with the violet of his magic. he breathes in tune with it; glow and fade, glow and fade, until it seeps back into him. 

calm, yunho shuts his eyes, and thinks of nothing. 

when he opens his eyes next the sun is nearly behind the horizon, casting the city in shadows and the shrine in fading light. 

his family will be home soon. yunho takes his hands away from the branch, and mumbles an old prayer, whispers thanks to the holy tree for helping him deal with the darkness. the ache in his chest has gentled, there but dull now, quiet like the rising moon hidden behind the clouds.

tired, yunho nears the last branches of the tree. a moment of misjudgment; the branch is smoother than expected and lower than he thought. his traditional silken shoes don’t grip. he tips, mind rendered into slow motion with shock, and he reaches, desperate for a higher branch. 

it grazes by his fingertips—

yunho hits the ground with a sickening crack. 

 _abyss._  

 

blackness dots his vision as he wakes, and he tries to blink it away as he rolls over with a strangled whimper. his arm throbs dangerously, hot,  _warning_ , and nausea scratches at his throat as he sucks in a breath, counts to three, and then spares a look down. 

his wrist is snapped, twisted in an odd, backwards angle, bone fractured and broken and peeking through the skin. 

a scream bubbles up yunho’s throat. sick, vivid stings of pain make themselves known in a relentless wave as he stares at his wrist, tears forming behind his eyes and mouth hanging open, breath halted and shallow. 

“fuck,” yunho snaps his mouth shut, eyes too, yells through gritted teeth. “fuck fuck  _fuck_ —”

a chain rattles, snaps with a loud sound in the recess of yunho’s mind. his power burns at his core, rippling with his distress. it jerks against it’s restraints, pulsing and agitated. yunho gasps, a strained cry running his throat raw as he scrambles with the effort to keep himself in check. 

“just a broken arm,” yunho bites his lip so hard it bleeds. “it’s just a broken arm—”

yunho looks at the gnarled mess his limb has become, and bile rises so violently he chokes keeping it down. the darkness of the blanketing night and the limitless shadows of the shrine push back against the violet glow of his purity, burning around the edges, swelling. 

“no no  _no_ —” yunho curls into himself, wrist held aloft. he glows brighter, his magic crackling against his skin from the inside like a tidal wave of a bomb. he almost misses it, the way the pain fades from his wrist, replaced with the flow of his power, back and forth over his skin, fade, glow, fade, glow. 

yunho stares, eyes wide, terror and fear cocktailing as his wrist begins to pop back into place, the bones fusing with a feeling like too hot water. the limb untwists, snapping sickeningly back into position. he holds his arm as far away from himself as possible, unbelieving, afraid. 

his purity pushes still, soaring through his veins and seeping from his body in a rush. yunho makes a sound between a sob and a shout of pain, gurgled, and staggers to his feet, forcing himself not to think about all the scars that had split open after his fall, now nonexistent and gone. he takes one look at his house, and stumbles in the opposite direction, heaving for air against the shrine’s air, abrasive and not enough in his lungs. black dots his vision again, and yunho lets the tears fall. 

he has always known that he held power, but he has never faced it like this. a cut or two, sure, shatter something to pieces with an arrow?  _sure_. but never has he ever just  _rejuvenated_. never has he just  _healed_. not like this, gods not like this. 

yunho makes it to the shrine’s well house the moment before his power becomes blinding. he rips the sliding door open, despite it being stuck with disuse. he slams it behind him, stumbles his way down the stairs until he reaches the well.

he leans against the old wooden structure. abyss comes, and he collapses on the cold, packed dirt.  

 

deep breaths. 

the brightness wavers. yunho’s throat tightens. he needs something. he needs someone. 

he misses his father. 

yunho digs his nails into the earth, drags chunks of clay into his palms, forcing the cold to anchor him. he pants, trembling with the effort to put his chains back in place. his insides are fire, and his body screams at him, cries with the need to let go. 

yunho forces himself the think about the innocent children, about the demon children that want to grow up and do nothing but live peaceful lives. he thinks of how innocent their mere existence is. 

he fights himself so hard he misses the gritty slide of the well house door as it opens. 

“jung.”

yunho releases a sharp gasp, pain rippling through his body as he tries to snap more chains into place. he glances up. max is staring at him from the top of the steps, perfectly dressed and hair windswept. 

“go away,” yunho says through gritted teeth, brows snapped down. “please. go away.”

max ignores him, steps down from the ledge and lowers himself to the dirt floor. the darkness of his clothes seem to absorb the light of yunho’s pulsing power. max’s face casts in half shadows, a stark contrast, too perfect and unnervingly inhuman. 

“little shaman,” max says gently, and for a moment, yunho remembers in vivid color. 

 _little shaman_ , some one had once said, ages and ages ago. 

another surge of purity pushes outward, crackling in its own intensity, and yunho slams it back in, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. the glow brightens and fades again, a tidal wave of energy. 

max crouches down beside yunho, looking stupidly unconcerned. yunho wants to crawl away and hide, curl tighter in on himself, as though he can force himself to becomes one with the earth. the image of the holy tree flickers across his mind, and he thinks maybe he could. maybe he could become the spirit of the tree, warning future human children to be kind to those who are different than them so that they don’t have to hide anymore. 

“breathe, little shaman.”

"i  _am,"_  yunho grits out, snapping. 

max ignores him, repeating. “breathe. don’t fight your power. redirect it, not block. let it flow.”

yunho shifts his focus to the murmur of max’s voice and lets it soothe him. it is peppermint tea on cold mornings, the sound of the breeze between the leafs of the holy tree, the comfort of his bed, the warmth of his sister’s hugs and his grandfather’s assuring smiles. it is his mother’s unconditional love. it is his father’s easy nature.

slow like the tide coming in and slower still, yunho redirects. he pushes his power through his hands, down his arms, over the expanse of his skin. he runs it up his spine and across his ribs. he snaps every chain and pushes it back into his core and lets it sit there, unbound and alive inside of him until it rushes through his limbs again, fuses into his very blood and soars through his quick beating heart. he lets it run through him, just under his skin and at constant movement. 

yunho falls forward in a heap, uncaring that his cheek smashes against the dirt floor. his body lays limp despite it’s new thrum. he is a marionette with cut strings, unmoving and barely breathing. beside him, max sighs softly. 

“max?” yunho whispers, black spotting his vision. even in the now dark of the well house yunho can see. his power is everywhere, and it enhances his senses to an almost uncomfortable level. “what is wrong with me?”

max doesn’t answer, caressing his fingers through yunho’s hair instead. yunho finds it in him to allow a brief bout of vanity, covered in sweat and dirt as he is. it fades just as quick, and a thick fog of fatigue finally settles into his bones, adrenaline sapping out. he thinks of his bed and how far _away_  it is. yunho decides he could care less if he falls asleep in the dirt. 

“come,” max says, interrupting yunho’s slow fade into dreamless oblivion, as if reading his thoughts. “come to bed.”

yunho lifts himself to his knees with a whisper of a pained groan. gravity does not agree with him. his limbs are heavy, his eyes barely open. nausea kicks in again. 

max makes an amused “mmn,” gingerly scoops yunho into his arms and lifts him, cradles him to his chest in a way that yunho would question if he was not as zapped as he is. 

yunho blinks owlishly, seeing nothing, and mutters. “i could’ve gotten up myself.”

max’s dark gaze catches yunho’s empty one reprovingly. “surely.”

yunho grumbles, gives in. his head slumps against the sharp cut of max’s collarbone, and he pays no heed to how max opens the well house door with his booted foot, not bothering to shut it behind them. yunho dozes away the silent walk across the courtyard, only wakes when he is being laid down into the cold sheets of his unmade bed. 

“you’re warm fro a vampire,” yunho mumbles, eyes crossing under his lids with exhaust. 

“mm-hmm.” max allows yunho a moment to kick off his silk shoes before tucking him in gently with the duvet. yunho peers from the blankets at max, gaze sleepily intense. 

“sleep.” max orders, posture riddled with grace, regal. 

“how old are you?” yunho shoots out. 

max blinks, smiles that almost smile. his chest rumbles with a low chuckle. “as old as you,” he says secretively. “too old. sleep, yunho.”

yunho sleeps. 

 

yunho wakes up once, bleary and disoriented, on his side with the blankets halfway kicked off and a hand entwined with his. he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare as his eyes adjust too quick to the dark, a reminder of how his power is flowing as he takes in the slouched figure of max next to his bed. at some point max had pulled yunho’s desk chair to settle beside him. at some point later, their hands had clasped. 

yunho studies max’s hand in a daze, oddly smaller than his own, fingers long and graceful. warm. 

max stirs, eyes sliding open to reveal bright gold. max sighs as he watches yunho watch him, and lets their hands go, only to lean forward to press a sweet, chaste kiss to yunho’s temple. 

“sleep,” max whispers. 

yunho doesn’t fight the  _want to_  in his chest, the  _need to_. slumber encases him and he lets it come, lets it tug his eyelids shut with ease. 

it was a dream, yunho thinks when he wakes next, bundled in his blankets and alone. 

a dream. 

 

 

*

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

yunho wakes to gray light and an open window, huddled beneath his blankets in a subconscious effort to avoid the dewy air. he stares blankly out at the darkening sky and it’s rain clouds, thinking that maybe he should be remembering something.

a rumble of thunder and the telltale pitter pat of rain starting stirs him into action. he gets up and slides the window shut, eyes blurry and sleep still weighing heavy on his bones.

he catches his reflection in the glass, and stills.

the horror of the night before floods his mind as he looks at his dirt covered monk garb, and his breath catches high in his throat. his wrist isn’t broken. there isn’t a scratch on him. even the scar beneath his eye feels a little less there.

beside him his desk chair is pushed back to its proper place. the thought of max, too tall in his childhood room, neatening up, makes a burst of laughter bubble up his chest, and yunho falls back into his bed, laughing into his pillow.

yunho feels fine. he can’t recall when he last woke up in a decent mood, and he doesn’t let that thought, or the one reminding him of the magic thrumming just under the surface, deter him. he rises from his bed, once again catching sight of himself in his reflection. he frowns. his mother is not going to be happy about the mud stains.

he strips on his way to the bathroom, taking extra care to fold the clothes even in their haphazard state. in the shower he revels in the feel of hot water easing his muscles, washes his hair twice before scrubbing himself flush.

yunho finds himself staring at his wrist and the way the water pools down his skin just beneath it. there is no scar, no sign of deformity where the bone had been peeking from the inside. the mental image of it, gnarled and snapped backwards, makes him shiver. he rotates it experimentally. it feels normal, nothing out of place, and it makes him think of the way his power now moves. his power is humming everywhere inside, and it makes him think of max.

max and his bright eyes, and they way they darken with hunger. the sharp lines of his jaw, his collarbone. his fingers, laced with his own. his mouth, lips wide and sensual and the way the felt, littering butterfly kisses and searing where they touched.

lust breaks yunho in the form of a shuddering sigh. goosebumps. a sudden sheen of sweat against the shower mist—

yunho rinses, scrubs until his skin blooms pink, and remembers the chill that seeped in from his open window, dons a hoodie over his shirt as he starts to make his way down stairs, but he stops up short, eyes catching on a slip of paper ripped from one of his old notebooks.

“‘mid-city train station. noon,’” yunho mouths the words, written clear and tilted neat in a way that strikes him as old calligraphy. “‘we have matters to discuss.’”

it’s not signed, but who else but max would leave something so practical?

yunho drops the note back onto his desk with a short, amused huff and makes toward the kitchen for breakfast.

guilt cords through him immediately when he’s met with wary shock and unbotheredly open glances behind his back at his well mood. it makes yunho cringe from behind his tea; his family has been worried, _is_ worried. for the first time in a long time yunho finds himself at a loss as to what to speak with his family about, he hasn’t really… been here, or realized how out of loop he was being, and his gut churns in disappointment and warm shame. jihye’s captain of her debate team now. his grandfather secured two grants for the shrine and his mother has slowly been hand sewing everyone new traditional robes for the summer festivities. yunho tries to keep up, an odd layer of lethargic lack of attention making him silently withdraw, nod and listen, seriously promise himself to bring his family back into the line of his priorities and to spend more time with them, even after he eventually returns to his apartment.

the house empties, and yunho stays to do the dishes, humming mindlessly to himself as he washes, rinses, dries, repeats, finishes.

yunho stops at the bottom of the stairs, his hackles raising, a pressure settling in the air. he stands still, turns on his socked heel and peers into the empty house. there’s an echo of silence. something doesn’t feel right.

he makes it up one stair, two, hits the landing, brows furrowed. he makes it to his room, just to the door, and light flares behind his eyes. it’s sudden and leaves him stunted, hands gripping the door frame and his breath coming short. his ears ring, and he curses as the thrum of his power fluxes with a deep pulse.

“oh shit, why, redirect,” yunho crumples to the floor and blinks the sting from his eyes. his mouth tastes like copper, and his fingertips sizzle violet. he catches his reflection and watches himself flicker, blur at the edges. “ _redirect_.”

electricity zips through his veins at a painful speed, hurts his heart. his chest burns as he realizes that the rise in pressure had been himself, that he had been feeling the fire within as an entity. the ebb and flow is unrestrained just beneath the surface, crashing waves hitting harsh against the cliffs, and habitually, desperately, yunho snaps a chain in place, snaps it tight. his hands stop glowing.

hunched over on the floor, deliberately ignoring the cold dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth, yunho raises his head, drained and panting slow. he glances the alarm clock by his bed, then the rosary hanging from the frame of it.

yunho decides that he will spend the next few hours diligently.

it’s odd for there to be sunlight out, as gray as it is. he only ever partakes in any sort of training when the moon is high and the winds are silent.

the field behind the backyard is flush with vegetation, grass edging on tall even at the base of the trees, higher around the legs of old splintered targets, and yunho makes a mental note to tend to it as he tightens the strap on his quiver. it’s rough against his hoodie, not as light as it usually feels when he wears his monk robes, but he shrugs his shoulders to adjust, raises his practice bow—and old, short bow with tendered applewood, his father’s—and notches an arrow. gingerly, breathing deep, yunho lets his chain go slowly, feeling the warmth rise up in swells, too much and blindingly raw. yunho pushes just so, a test, and his hands warm. the tip of the stone arrowhead swirls with light, purple and crackling. he feeds into it gently, gentler still as magic engulfs down to the wood, straightens out the feathers wrapped to the end.

yunho narrows his eyes, and wills it not to break. “redirect. hit the mark.”

he lets the arrow go. it hisses through the air with a quiet whistle and seals into the wooden target with a disturbing, echoing crack. yunho watches as the bullseye splinters down the middle with lines like lightning as his power spreads along the fibers, swelling with violet.

the trees at the edge of the field bend, leaves rattling.

the next bullseye he shoots downright explodes, and so do all the others.

yunho nods to himself and notches yet another arrow, slips into a focus. his eyes zero in, his breathing turns shallow. warmth spreads up his entire body. he loses count of how many targets he ruins, and the sun bleeds through the gray, high and insistent without much of his notice. yunho only knows when noon comes by the stretch of the tree’s shadows, and only then does he stop.

he finds himself at the train station soon enough, waiting outside of the east entrance. max didn’t specify which or where exactly, but yunho doesn’t worry. max is a demon, a demon of the hunter variety to be exact; he will find him, and yunho is not wrong.

it takes no less than a few moments for max to lope into view, seemingly gliding through the crowd without bumping into a single person, despite the density. yunho snorts, unsure if he should envy the skill or marvel at it.

“max,” yunho greets, offering a small smile. images of the night before splay in vivid detail, accompanied by a flood of embarrassment. magic warms beneath yunho’s skin, quicksilver with the emotion. he had nearly lost control. again.

max simply nods, impassive, and then turns on his heel to stride off, offering yunho a raised eyebrow from over his shoulder and an arrogant flick of his fringe. yunho smothers a spark of irritation and walks after him, gluing his eyes to the back of max’s long, burgundy coat and the waves of his curling dark hair. max slips through the crowd like water, and yunho tries to keep up as he moves against it, is buffeted and bumped into. for a second max slows as he notices yunho’s stunted pace, eyes up and down blankly as he lessens the haste of his stride. yunho shoots max a grateful look. max looks away.

“you did all of this just to bring me to a tiny coffee place?” yunho asks slowly, thoroughly harassed as they duck in and tuck into a corner table. the place is about empty of others. light comes in through large windows and glances off of small black-wood tables. max doesn’t offer a word as a waitress approaches them quickly, bowing as she leaves their menus.

still now, legs crossed under the table and staring at the menu blankly, yunho feels bare, very aware of his lackluster ability to handle that which is himself. he eyes max over the menu, who is scanning his own. he threatens death if yunho can’t compose himself, and after the night before, yunho isn’t sure max will find it possible.

the waitress returns. yunho laments the menus as they’re taken, leaving him with nothing to try and hide behind as max faces him; the gentleness that had been in his expression is nonexistent. yunho wonders for the nth time if it had been a dream, and startles himself by speaking first.

“tell me what you know.” max’s mouth turns down at the corner. yunho sighs. “at least try to help me understand what the hell is happening here. you seem to be the expert, anyhow.”

“tell me how you lost control.”

ire flares up yunho’s throat, lost as to why the entirety of it seems to be just a mystery, impatient that he’s being kept out of a loop that so concerns him.

“i fell from the holy tree,” yunho swallows his temper. “i broke my arm.”

max glances from yunho’s arms and back, eyes searching as if looking for a lie.

“as you can see,” yunho laughs without humor and rolls up his sleeve, “i’m fine. it healed.”

“that is,” max says, eyes just a bit brighter than usual, looking as if he wants to break into an expression of something joyful, proud, even. “unexpected.”

“and i’m hoping you have an answer.”

“contrary to what you may believe, i do not have the answers to _everything_ ,” max says, just a bit playful, throwing yunho’s chest into a cage of wing beats with a sudden almost smile. “just a lot of things.”

yunho makes a small sound of disbelief, more for himself than anything as they are interrupted by the waitress, who places a pot of tea and two porcelain cups between them before bowing away once again. max reaches across to pour tea in both of their cups, the motions filled with the poise of ease and constant repetition. yunho watches his hands, enthralled by the lines of them, the familiarity of the simple act of pouring tea.

“you need to meditate.” max says plainly, pushing yunho’s cup for him to take. “if you were good at it,” max utters dryly, sounding for all the world as if he’s said this a thousand times and will have to say it a thousand more, “last night would not have been an issue.”

yunho wants to protest; he hates meditation, forget the fact that he’s never been a lick of good at it. magic burns at his rise in emotion, it takes no more than the prickle beneath his skin to remind him, to keep it from happening again.

“i practice with archery—“

“you will meditate.”

“i didn’t say i wouldn’t,” yunho snaps, petulantly.

max studies yunho impassively from behind his tea, and yunho feels his back straightening, chin tilting defiantly.

max makes a vaguely amused sound, eyes turning to look at out a window. yunho sips his own tea, a little cooler than the warm he prefers. he watches it as he sets the small cup down, matching the way it crashes against the sides of the glass in ripples with the power at his fingertips.

“i’ll teach you how to meditate.”

discomfort racks up yunho’s chest, sudden and old and not exactly misplaced. “no thanks.”

max’s eyes narrow, and something flashes behind them, dark. black. yunho blinks.

“i will instruct you twice a week.” max continues as if yunho hasn’t uttered a single sound. “you will _learn._ ”

yunho quells the irritation snapping inside of him. this man, this _demon_ brings out the worst in him, the odd, too, and yunho grits his teeth. “fine.”

max nods, glances behind yunho and then raises a hand in the air, fingers crooking just so to catch the attention of their waitress. a sense of déjà vu cob-webs over yunho’s mind, and for a second he see’s another hand, the same, claw tipped and covered in blood—

the waitress presents a check. yunho flinches out of the memory, watching almost blankly as max takes the bill. yunho means to say that he’ll get it, that he’ll pay, but he’s silent as max stands to meet the waitress at the small counter by the entrance, ignored as max walks out the door. yunho follows dazedly, almost crashes into max when he stops without warning.

max turns, close enough to be warm, and yunho takes a half step back, surprised.

“soon,” max says slowly, raising a hand to his hair as the wind catches it. “i will find you for our first session soon,” and then he is out of immediate sight, in the crowd, then ahead of it, gone.

yunho resists sighing, groans when he realizes that max hadn’t answered a single one of his questions and instead left him with more.

one’s that sound like _what is wrong with me_ and _why does my heart hurt_.

 

 

 

*

 

 

yunho is usually slightly annoyed for days at how slow the library is. he sits for hours, waiting, beyond finished with organization duties and the like, wishing something would break the monotony. the silence leaves him with his thoughts. too often do they quickly turn morose.

now, yunho is more grateful for the time.

mr. park is pleasantly surprised that yunho wants access to the restricted room, aiming for casual as he asks which books ‘mr. kang’ has been studying, ending up fighting heat in his face when mr. park winks at him and gives an old, knowing smile. yunho insists that he’s just curious. mr. park buys none of it.

normally yunho doesn’t think he would have cared. he doesn’t think he should, though it’s not like he can exactly ignore the way his chest flickers every time max is near, about how he seems to lose his thoughts when max dares to smile. yunho frowns, more self-conscious about it than before.

“max is an asshole. i _don’t_ like him,” because maybe the more yunho says it, the more it’s likely to be true.

yunho flips a page in the tome in his hands, finding nothing of interest. it’s a dull, head-aching read that yunho has difficulty focusing on. more importantly, he doesn’t even understand why he likes the damn vampire, considering the disastrous first encounter, which max has seemed to wipe from his very memory. yunho thinks maybe he should be offended, if only he didn’t wish that he could do the same. it’s a dark spot, and an embarrassing one. his insides cringe every time he thinks about it.

yunho pushes the book away with a tired groan, leans back in his office chair and rubs his eyes, files his fingers in his hair and leaves them there, tugs. he isn’t finding anything in these pages, just story after story of adulterous humans getting whisked away by ogres and the like. if anything he finds that he’s insulted at how humans are skewed at such a degree.

he stands, stretching his legs as he strides to the restricted room to return the useless book, moves on to another. mr. park went as far as assembling a list of the titles max had read, and yunho is slowly making his way through them. the next is a scroll, and yunho dons gloves and arms himself with soft tipped tweezers so that he can handle the text. he’s amazed that mr. park is allowing him to do this for something as ridiculous as a crush.

which he is not.

yunho makes sure the book is returned to its spot on the shelves with a last glance as he unrolls the scroll on the center counter, nearly keeling over when he comes face to face with hanja older than the country, thick lines of ink coming together in a picture as well.

yunho wages a battle with the characters peeking through where the scroll hasn’t closed, reading through them to try and gather the story. a life stealing shadow taken with a child of the holy, one who fought for peace between the wayward balance of yin and yang. the end says that the journey left the shadow as the only ancient darkness left. the end says that while it broke the monk’s heart, he destroyed the shadow, too.

there is a painted image of a monk, face smudged with age, bow and arrow poised to shoot at a dark, looming, enraged being with sharp canines and black eyes. yunho forces his hands to relax, to let the scroll close on its own, but the image is _there_ , seared into his mind with terrifying clarity.

there is an odd, butterfly wing beat in yunho’s chest. he puts the scroll away.

he doesn’t look at the list again.

 

yunho tosses. turns. kicks his blankets off of the bed until he finally gives up on the faint wish of sleep to peer out of his window. the shrine courtyard is moon-swept and cast in shadow. even with the warming days the glass is cool, and yunho’s breath leaves brief clouds of mist on the surface before vanishing as fast as it forms. he lets his forehead press against the window as his mind trickles through memories he can’t see.

he tries to force himself to see the thick of a blanketing shadow reflecting in the branches of the holy tree, petrifying, careful, and distant. there’s only a breeze as the branches wave mournfully at him.

yunho’s knuckles whiten as his hands curl into fists, as he reaches down to the roots under the smooth courtyard stone and stares down the tree, pleading for it to speak to him.

it does not.

it sways mutely in the night winds.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

max appears at the top of the shrine steps like a man headed into battle. his shoulders are stiff and his back is straight under the fitting lines of his thin black sweater. his eyes are dark and glinting, free to catch the light with his hair pulled into a string tied knot.

yunho raises his brows at him from where he’s exiting the storage shed, lip twitching as he folds his arms into the sleeves of his monk robes. “it’s summer,” he says, pointedly, eyeing max’s legs in even blacker jeans that fold into even blacker boots. he turns away when max just stares back, saying nothing.

“give me a moment,” and yunho escapes into the house, shoulders slumping as he steps into the bathroom, where he washes his hands, rinses his face. it doesn’t do much to calm his nerves, and he frowns at himself in the mirror. he takes in his season’s monk garbs, lighter in color to reflect the sun, see’s how stress lines have started to mar his brow. his faces is—

a monk. smudged with age—

yunho turns the water off and slams the door behind him.

he finds max at the base of the holy tree, staring into the branches blankly, aware of yunho, and yunho can tell in the way max tenses as he approaches him. there is something palpable around max today, as though if he came close he would fling yunho across the court and vanish away. it’s disconcerting. yunho’s hackles rise.

“so,” yunho hedges, awkwardly curling his hands back into his sleeves. “where should we do this?”

max tears his darkened eyes from the tree to slowly survey the shrine yard. the well-house and the storage sheds, the prayer shrine, the pond off to the side of his family’s home, the trees behind it and the city further behind that. max moves into a spot speckled with sunlight filtering through the holy tree’s cool shadow.

“here,” max says shortly, summoning yunho with a jerky wave of his hand. yunho pays it no heed, he can’t, all he’s seeing is max in the freckle beams of light and how the colors of the tree seem to form right against his skin, as though he is the odd puzzle piece yunho’s finally found a spot for.

the puzzle makes no _sense_.

“today, jung.” max says, edged and tinged with exasperation. yunho resists the bursting urge to tell max to fuck off, moves to stand next to him, gaze honed in on his face in undisguised irritation.

“what now,” yunho asks purposely.

max stares at him carefully, searching for something, before he turns away. “sit,” he says, doing so himself. yunho watches as he settles with unnatural grace, legs folding under him. yunho moves to do the same, but max interrupts him with a brisk shake of his head.

“consider your disposition. _you_ will sit with your legs crossed.”

“your confidence is inspiring.” yunho drawls testily.

max ignores him. “it will be easier.”

yunho feels like cursing, or exploding something with an arrow. he settles, lets it go with the breeze, and deems himself used to max’s behavior by now, despite its odd fluxes, especially in the areas of _kindness_. yunho wonders if max is more aware of him than he lets on.

yunho forces his thoughts to tamper, shuttles them to the side as he eyeballs max expectantly. max folds his hands, one above the other, flat, thumbs pressing together just so. he waits for yunho to comply silently, and yunho copies his movements.

“close your eyes,” max murmurs. light dances across yunho’s vision, bleeds the darkness with calming colors, and he listens intently to the sound of max’s voice, low and smooth. “count each breath to ten, then start over. don’t think of anything else. just breathe.”

the breeze plays at the nape of yunho’s neck, rustling his hair, a reminder that he needs to get it cut. he douses the thought, and tries to count.

one. two. three—

max’s presence beside him become obvious, an itch, a sensitivity that travels down his bones and prickles uncomfortable beneath the surface of his chest.

yunho forgets to breathe.

one. two—

he wonders what max looks like when he meditates, and he can imagine it. sun cutting across the sharpness of his cheekbones and sweetening the glow of his skin, mouth lax if not stern, brow unfurrowed, but concentrated. yunho opens his eyes. just one peek.

max’s eyes narrow on yunho suspiciously, all previous traces of gold gone. yunho flinches, snaps his eyes shut as though nothing happened. max saw him. max stared—what _was_ that?

yunho fidgets. the stones are not easy on him, his legs starting to sleep, and he makes a mental note to perhaps bring a pillow for this next time. how can max possibly sit so formally like he is, on _stone_ no less. yunho resists the urge to open his eyes again.

he _hates_ meditating.

yunho’s only warning is a soft huff of irritation. max’s hands are cool on his, and yunho’s eyes pop open, gaze bemused.

“sit still,” max growls, and yunho’s brows raise. max is close. yunho forgets to breathe.

max looks untouchable in the slanting light, looks more spirit than demon, malleable save for the warming, searing touch of his hands on yunho’s skin. yunho wants to take his hands away, if only to reach for the plane of max’s cheek, to feel if it is real. yunho wants to let his hair come undone so he can run his fingers through it. he wants to discover max inside out, so he can know why the reflection of the holy tree seems so _proper_ on his tanned complexion.

and max stares, too. stares and stares, as if faced with an abyss and the fear it brings forth.

yunho’s mouth parts. max’s gaze drops.

max is gone.

torn away, across the courtyard, eyes blazing as he stands from a crouch so quick all yunho catches is the blur of the motion. the flicker of amusement that had been there is nowhere to be found, replaced with a sickening expression of loathing until the shields slam down, and his features are decidedly impassive once again.

he says _nothing_ to yunho, and his mind blanks with shock.

max is gone quicker than summer rain.

yunho tries to ignore the way his hands tingle where max had touched him.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

max doesn’t return. his threat of forcing yunho to learn to meditate falls null, and instead yunho spends his time with his bow and arrows, rebuilding targets and taking to clutching the rosary in sleep, rubbing the beads smooth against his palms and fingers, as though he can feel something through them touching him back. it helps ease the confusion. the guilt.

the rosary remains awfully lifeless, any thrum of spirit it contained before gone, and yunho is left with a hollow feeling in the mornings when he hitches the necklace to his bedpost. it seems as if every time he puts the necklace away a little piece of its entity slips away. yunho keeps reaching, keeps pushing his own power through it, but it runs to where he can’t follow.

not even in his dreams.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

yunho’s control is on an edge, sharp and boiling, and he feels as if even the smallest breeze will knock loose is desperately chained temper. the sun is going down and his hands are tired from shooting, splintered from rebuilding targets and his body echoes with swells of unused power, pulled tight on a string. he’s tired.

he cleans himself up and helps his mother with dinner.

they are interrupted, the doorbell to their home startling them with how rarely it’s used. yunho takes count of his family, brow furrowing. his sister is out, not due to be home until late. his grandfather is on the couch. his mother is right next to him. the shrine is closed for the day.

“do you mind?” yunho’s mother asks absently, gesturing vaguely to the foyer as she continues to dice vegetables. yunho rinses his hands slowly.

“sure, mama.”

yunho’s curiosity shrivels into something else when something flickers in his chest. max is there, standing stiffly on the other side of the threshold, ruffled and discomfited. yunho notes the leather and the windswept hair, the brightness of his eyes, and tries not to feel sick.

“we’re preparing dinner now,” yunho says brusquely, strained, unsure of how to act after… weeks.

max smiles an almost smile, and yunho knows exactly what he’s going to say as the sweet curve of his canines catch the light, and he is not wrong.

“i just ate.”

yunho exhales quietly, skin feeling raw as he leans against the doorframe, crosses his arms and eyes max steadily. he wants to ask max, ask him a lot of things—how have you been? who did you eat? where the fuck did you go?—but he realizes that it would mean admitting certain self noted secrets to himself that he isn’t ready to come to terms with and face just yet. some questions just don’t need to be answered.

“we need to continue your lessons,” max says, eyes flickering.

yunho’s brows raise to his hairline, “wow,” and he raises his hands to rub his face, laughing. tired. _pissed off_. “you can’t just show up to my house and expect me to drop everything for you. contrary to your belief,” he mocks, casually, burning with ire, “i still have a life. would you believe it?”

“i see.”

a headache blooms across the back of yunho’s eyes, and he closes them. “because i was raised right, i am going to invite you in. i may or may not be more agreeable to a lesson after dinner.”

“i just ate.”

“and i insist.”

“do you realize,” max says, quietly raising his hand to the threshold, and placing it there, watching as yunho’s mouth parts with an _oh_. “that once you let me in, there is no going back?“

“you’ve come in before,” he mutters, unsure, thinking of a dream.

“i am old and there are loopholes,” max states dismissively, almost amused, then pressing into the barrier keeping him away. “this is real,” his eyes darken with fire. he looks thirsty. “i need your _permission._ ”

yunho stands, power pulsing under his skin and muscles wound tight with tension. he feels too warm, a burning ache pooled high in his gut. he feels foolish. he feels—

“come in.”

max straightens, so suddenly and so fast that yunho thinks he just might crack down the middle, shatter into a million rebondable pieces. yunho steps back and max comes forward, eyes half mast and black if only for a fictional second in yunho’s mind. max seems to contemplate for a second, stops at the edge of the foyer. yunho’s hands shake, and he balls them into fists.

“what?” he asks tentatively.

max crouches, kneeling, and silently, deliberately starts unlacing his boots, calf high this time. studded down the sides. there is a long, terrible, quiet moment as max takes care to take off his shoes and line them up at the door. yunho looks down at max’s feet, and almost bursts into a fit of disbelieving laughter.

max’s socks are an atrocious shade of yellow, pattern printed with chewbacca’s face.

“uh,” yunho muses, covering his mouth. “do you want slippers—“

max is smiling at yunho, just so, a tiny and dangerous flash of teeth, like he knows a secret he can’t wait to tell, and yunho’s breath catches as max murmurs, voice low and close. “i will endure.”

“right, sure, i’ll just,” yunho turns leading max to a low traditional table before heading for the kitchen. “mama.”

yunho’s mother doesn’t bother to look of from the chopping board. “who was it?”

“a friend.” yunho ignores how his mother stops chopping at that, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the aspect of max having dinner with him and his family. “can he stay for dinner?”

mama puts her knife down and narrows her eyes at her son. “i would have greeted him,” she says, purposely not saying no. yunho offers her a wide, childish grin. mama rolls her eyes, and goes back to her cutting. “make tea, boy.”

yunho prepares a tray with deft hands, letting his mother lead to the dining room where she greets max kindly, and not leaving without flicking yunho on the ear. she pauses at the entrance, though, a thought furrowing her brow.

“i didn’t catch your name, dear.”

“max kang.” max tells her eloquently, smiling an almost smile.

“mr. kang, welcome. i hope you enjoy curry?”

“i look forward to it, mrs. jung.”

mama returns to the kitchen, and yunho slides to the floor in a cross legged slouch, noting how max rests next to him much more gracefully, back straight. yunho scoffs quietly, and pours them both tea without ceremony, slides max’s cup across the table to rest in front of him before propping his chin in his hand, elbow to the table.

looking at him now, yunho thinks max seems jarringly off in his mother’s house. max is sharp and dangerous, doesn’t mix with the warm comfort of yunho’s family home. max does’t touch his tea, and they sit in silence with the sound of cooking lulling in the background, not comfortable and not uncomfortable, yunho’s eyes closed against his headache and max’s gaze to somewhere distant. yunho doesn’t know what to say, and he’s not sure if he actually wants to talk.

yunho’s sister comes through the front door.

“oh,” she says, fumbling, staring, blushing as max inclines his head in greeting. “uh, hello.”

“max kang,” yunho snorts as he introduces them, infinitely less formal than with his mother. “close your mouth, jihye.”

jihye’s mouth clicks shut, and she shoots a glare at her older brother before slipping up the stairs. yunho’s grandfather comes in her wake. conversation hums short and polite. yunho’s mother calls him to the kitchen, and dinner is served soon after.

yunho is surprised, to say the least, at how well his family adjusts to max, and max to them, if the slight raise in his shoulders throughout is anything to go by. max is taciturn, and he answers yunho’s family’s questions with a politeness yunho raises his brows at. yunho’s family doesn’t seem to mind, and the razor edge comes back. yunho teeters on it, a sharp, ugly feeling in the back of his throat in the form of angry disbelief.

the kindness max shows to yunho’s family makes him almost sick with a feeling he can only describe as _what about me_.

what about—

the walls seems a little closed in, the space at the table tight and small, every spot taken, and yunho feels like there is no _room_ , like max has a spot for everyone but him in his own home—and yunho had invited him to do it. irrationally, yunho grits his teeth at his family for allowing this to happen, and being so content with it, too.

dinner ends. yunho’s mother enlists jihye to help with the dishes, and max stands to thank them, to which yunho’s mother all but beams. yunho tries not to notice, eyes on the wall, loathing curdling high in the cavity of his chest, an off pulse flicker that won’t die down.

“come,” max gestures, stepping from the dining area and into the entryway, comfortable, like he’s done this already. yunho feels something sick thunder in the depths of his gut, and he resists resisting, refusing to go back on his word.

yunho follows, feeling almost childish. dusk has fallen, and the shrine is mostly shadow, dimly lit with the outer wall’s lanterns. a thick scattering of clouds blocks the moon, and yunho is grateful. he doesn’t want to see the holy tree glowing with the moon’s skeletal grace, and he doesn’t want the tree to see him, wallowing and _low_.

max waits for yunho to settle beneath the tree from a different distance than before, much further away. yunho spares a second to mourn his lack of pillow, and sinks to the stones, heavy.

“remember what i told you,” max’s voice comes, stoic and quiet. “breathe and count.”

mosquitos buzz by yunho’s ears. the weight of dinner makes him uncomfortable in the stale night. he tries. he can’t.

“ _concentrate_.”

yunho sways at the command, snapped out. his skin prickles, there’s a heavy beating in the back of his head a warning, too late.

yunho tips. he falls. he curses.

“i’m tired of this. i’m tired of _everything_. i can’t _do_ this anymore,” a spark of rage, hot and searing and painful in his chest, and yunho’s lip curls, words burning on the tip of his tongue, _how dare he_. “i am not yours to judge, my life isn’t here for infiltrating. i am not an _inconvenience_.”

“are you that foolish?” max says. his eyes are black. he is dangerous, and yunho does not _care_ —“are you so selfish to not see beyond the end of your own nose? do you genuinely care so little for innocents? are you content to _kill them_ so that you can mope over a little _crush_?”

air sweeps out of yunho’s lungs, and he feels max’s remarks sting like a slap. yunho looks away, from him, from the tree, shame rising through him like a swelling tidal wave. it overcomes his rage, washes away his anger. it leaves warm, tender pain in its wake.

“leave.” he whispers, shakes. “please just leave.”

max stands, mouth taut and eyes on fire. “if you cannot do something this simple, then you are not worth the time, much less _this_ life you live.”

there is a short gust of wind, max is gone, and this time—

this time yunho knows exactly what just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, resident trash here. just stopping by to say that yes this is done, but..... this chapter..... so short................................

 

 

 

yunho spends the night outside, ignoring how his body aches. he leans his back against the holy tree, taking solace in the eerie quiet and the cool wind. the lamps along the outer shrine walls have dimmed to nothing, and yunho takes it as a telltale sign of midnight. yunho is left in a darkness so deep that he can barely see his hand in front of his face.

“idiot.” he whispers to himself.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

sore and exhausted, soul bleeding, yunho sets out to find max. the memory of where max’s home is located is a vague one, but the estate is unmistakable with its tall walls and intimidating black gates. yunho presses the com button on the edge of the stone wall and waits as patiently as possible. an eternity seems to pass before max appears, and yunho feels his tongue press into the roof of his mouth.

max is not in his usual clothing; no impeccable suit, no jeans stolen from the runway, and no sweater showcasing the fine lines of his arms. he’s in nothing but a plain silky black hanbok, and yunho finds himself reeling with—shock, perhaps? something jars him, strikes him with a very wrong familiarity that he can’t place. he wonders if it’s because the change in wardrobe is unexpected, but, then again, yunho thinks as he considers the traditional state of max’s home. then again he _shouldn’t_ be surprised.

max doesn’t open the gate. he stands, stares, and yunho flushes before bowing deep at the waist and resting his hand on his chest.

“i’m sorry, i was wrong. please,” his voice shakes. “teach me.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

yunho is sure that max had taken pleasure in his shame. he’d left yunho bowing for no less than an entire minute.

“straighten yourself,” he’d said, voice so soft that yunho had barely heard him. and yunho had stood, watched max as he unlatched the gate and slid it open just enough to let him in.

yunho had only felt a moment of trepidation before he’d entered, slipped by, so close that their shoulders had brushed.

now, with the time and clarity to actually study his surroundings, he revels in the small paradise of peace that is max’s land. the city is full of skyscrapers and narrow streets, and yunho finds it as refreshing as it is rare to know of such a place with an honest atmosphere of solitude. the beautifully kept garden of a yard feels like an escape, and yunho thinks that maybe it is.

max beckons for yunho to follow him, and they meander through the traditional scape, with all of its hills, stretching pond, blooming evodia trees, and clusters of rosebay bushes. max stops them at a wooden bench beneath a tall chokecherry tree. “oh,” yunho breathes as he eyes the spattering of flowers surrounding the chokecherry, blue and bright and glittering with the morning’s dew as spots of sunlight hit through the tree’s leaves. he can feel max’s gaze on him, but he ignores it in favor of crouching and running the tips of his fingers over the soft curling petals. his power is thrumming just under his skin, and watches, rapt, as the flower seems to bend into his touch. “gentianas are my favorite.”

“sit with me.” max says, on the bench now, and yunho rises from his crouch slowly. the bench is small enough that when he sits, their shoulders touch again, and yunho can’t help but be hyperaware of his form. the shade is welcoming in the summer’s morning heat, but it doesn’t ease the tension in yunho by a fraction. he focuses. his gaze falls on the smaller pond in front of them, the brief glimpses of large koi that come in flashes of silver, deep purple, and gold. there is a pavilion off to the other side of the rippling water, its structure also traditional but the wood painted sleek and dark.

“we will try something different,” max finally says. yunho can’t tell if he is forgiven or not, but max’s voice is more gentle than it’s ever been. “forget about focusing on your breathing. think of something that you know will hold your attention, focus only on that. we will sit here.”

nodding silently, glad he’s dressed in a comfortable light tshirt and his favorite jeans as he closes his eyes to the spots of sun, yunho clasps his hands in his lap and tries to ignore how tender his body is. he listens to the trickle of the stream feeding into the pond, tries to focus on it, but his mind strays quick and it strays just as quickly from the soft breeze through his hair, even quicker from the twining perfume of the gentianas and the chokecherry’s flowers. he tries to quell his budding frustration—he does _not_ want max to regret inviting him into his home, his piece of paradise.

max smells just as yunho remembers: earthy, savory, spicy and _good._ he is solid next to yunho, and yunho can feel the near nonexistent shift of his shoulder and bicep against his own as he breathes in. yunho’s focus soars deeper.

max’s aura is a towering, demanding thing of a presence, but swirls softly in inviting lazy patterns that yunho latches onto easily. the warmth of max’s aura flows into his own, and yunho can feel his power smooth out, redirect itself to match and blend into the wavy flow of max’s.

yunho’d be proud of himself, if he didn’t fall asleep soon after.

it doesn’t last long. yunho wakes shortly to his name being murmured gently.

“yunho. _yunho_.”

yunho opens his eyes blearily, curses at himself for giving in to his fatigue.

“shit.” it comes out oddly soft, no less worn. “i’m sorry, _sorry—_ i’ll do better.”

“do not worry yourself,” max says after a moment. “you did well.”

yunho’s eyebrows shoot up immediately. his gaze snaps over just in time to catch max’s mouth twitch. yunho narrows his eyes. max is _laughing_ at him.

“i felt your aura,” max is saying. “you found focus, and you succeeded, if only for a few minutes.”

a faint bloom of pleasure fills yunho’s chest, and he feels his own mouth twitch. he _had_ felt something, hadn’t he, like exercising a muscle he hasn’t used in a long time. the thought makes laughter bubble up his throat, just like the day before, and the sound tumbles out of him, rusty and unused and as bright as the sun.

yunho covers his mouth, hunches over to hide his face and the too-high pitched laughter pouring from him. joy, he thinks it is, an entire rush of it over something as trivial as a compliment from a stoic demon. yunho snorts. stops. contains himself.

“sorry,” he says, chancing a glance even as he feels a ridiculous blush rise to his face, mouth still slightly curled up. “I’m just—I’m tired. sorry.”

max is still beside him, silent. the twitch of amusement isn’t there in the sinful pout of his mouth anymore, and it takes yunho too long to realize that max is staring at him intently. dark and hungry. longing. it makes yunho’s veins run cold, his breath catch and his chest flicker.

slowly, so slowly, max catches the edges of yunho’s lengthening hair between his fingertips. max watches his own hand with eyes devoid of gold and as if the appendage is not his own, even as he arcs his thumb over the strands in a short caress.

the gesture is startlingly familiar. yunho’s head thumps with the feel of wing-beats.

max tugs sharply at his hair.

“ _what_ the _fuck_ —“

max coils away, face crumpled into something yunho can’t see through the prick of tears the pain brings with it.

“no daydreaming,” max is saying, and yunho, tight with a burst of anger, stumped, stupidly, _stupidly_ stumped, cannot tell if max is talking to him or not. “go, yunho. that’s enough for today.”

yunho stutters, unsure of what he stutters over; the abrupt flick of a switch between them or the sound of his name. he feels dizzy, left behind with the sudden turn-around. max stands smoothly, deathly inhuman grace, and levers yunho up beside him by the elbow, starts steering him toward the exit. yunho stumbles, confused to the point of nearly being mute.

“max?” he starts, but max turns to him, towering, an old, aching pain furrowing his brow for the briefest of seconds. it is enough to make yunho’s mouth click shut.

_what?_

yunho gapes at max’s retreating figure once he is on the other side of the gate. his own hand is reaching up now, uncertain as it graces the warmed, black iron. he’s shaking, he realizes, when he can see max no more, just the sway of paradise on the other side.

the way max had whispered goodbye left him _shaking_.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

something somewhere deep cracks, and for a moment yunho thinks that maybe it’s his heart breaking. he can’t logically imagine why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

a week.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

yunho sits on the floor of his childhood room, the beads of his rosary rendering his skin numb where he’s rubbing them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

three weeks.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

he stops looking in the mirror, terrified of what he sees there.

a monk, face smudged with age—

his eyes, ringed with violet.

 

 

 

*

 

 

“ _do_ something!” his mother yells at him from his bedroom door. her face is contorted in angry concern, and her fist shakes where it’s balled at her side. _anything but this again_ doesn’t have to be said.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

sweat runs cold down yunho’s skin. the sun burns at his back and his legs ache from where he’s been standing, arms stiff from notching arrows.

this he can do.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

someone (jihye?) drops something at his feet. he discovers, after the moon is high and his finger tips are raw from pulling string and rebuilding wood, that it is his rosary.

“because we’re not blind,” his mother tells him when he asks, and her eyes are fire when she looks at him. “your family isn’t _blind_.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“you seem a little distracted,” mr. park states delicately, eyes trailing over the fresh scars on yunho’s fingers.

yunho cracks a rueful smile, hides his hands. “it’s just the weather."

mr. park hums quietly and disappears to the back.

it’s beautiful outside.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

yunho stands in the threshold of his apartment and stares.

dust has started to coat the surfaces, but for the most part everything is how he left it—bare and mostly clean. there’s still a half empty glass of water on the counter and from here he can see that his bed is still unmade on the right side.

with a sigh yunho dumps the duffle he brought, the thump of it echoing into the space. the sound resonates, and the emptiness of his home vibrates in the hallow of his throat.

it takes an hour to dust everything down and even longer to restore the feeling of _lived in_. standing in his kitchen, packet of noodles hanging limply from his hands as he stares into nothing, he decides that he doesn’t feel like it.

yunho grabs his duffle. goes home.

his mother tells him that she understands.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

it is a slow day at the shrine, and yunho combs through it with autopilot on. he delivers blessings with lackluster and sells summer charms to their visitors with barely a word. when the shrine is closed, he cleans the pond and sweeps the steps without a moments notice.

it is only after the sun begins to set that he wakes from his mental slumber, and he finds himself wondering what had made him surface so suddenly from within himself. yunho stores his broom away and rounds the corner of the well-house. a faint wing-beat echoes around his chest.

max is lounging beneath the holy tree, his eyes closed.

yunho sweeps by him, wary of the sudden déjà vu, ignoring how his bright eyes open to peek at him as he passes, and yunho makes no move to acknowledge him as he slips into the house.

the smell of fresh brewed jasmine is heavy inside. yunho itches for a cup, maybe something stronger, even, but decides that a shower and a change of clothes will do him better. he takes his time rinsing the muck off of him, dressing, ignoring his reflection.

he puts his slippers on before padding down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“yunho?”

“yes, mama?”

his mother is leaning against the counter, a cup of tea in her hands as she peers out of the window. “did you speak to mr. kang?”

yunho resists the urge to snort. “ _no_.”

his mother turns to him with a raised brow, saying everything and nothing.

“i have plans.” yunho pours himself his tea and settles at the kitchen table, finally feeling the ache of his muscles as he reclines. he sips.

“you’d better go,” mama says, and he knows she doesn’t mean out. yunho sets his cup down with more force than he means to.

“ _why?_ ”

“stupid boy,” his mother says fondly, if not a bit exasperated, before settling into a solemn tone that makes yunho still. “he needs you.”

yunho can’t keep the lilt of incredulity from his voice, the anger. _what the fuck_ , he wants to shout, scream. “ _how?_ ” is all he manages to wrangle out.

“he’s lonely, yunho.”

it’s the solemness of her tone, the quiet underlay of insistent urging that makes him follow her flickering gaze out of the window to settle on max’s lone figure, sitting the same as he’d been when yunho first glimpsed him, under the holy tree, dappled in the deepening red of sunset.

his chest flickers with wing-beats, so sudden and and alarming.

yunho tears his gaze away, picks up his tea. as always, his mother reminds him that she is not blind.

conceding silently, yunho leaves his tea on the table to be warmed for later and returns to his room. for a moment, panic rises like bile in the back of his throat, the mildest of humming beginning in the palms of his hands, tingling with anticipation and unchecked emotion. yunho forces himself to move, to make the creeping violet recede from where it is now shining around the edge of him. 

he changes from his jeans to sweats, trades his button down for a favorite t-shirt, still too big for him somehow. downstairs, he pauses at the entrance to the kitchen, where his mother meets him.

they fight in silence, staring one another down.

yunho goes outside.

the déjà vu hits hard as yunho lays eyes on max, the lazing demon posed in a way so familiar that yunho’s brows furrow. he ignores it—he’s doing a lot of that, lately.

“you don’t have shit better to do than sit under my tree?” he says, surprising himself as he sits down to lean against the warmed trunk of the tree beside him. he stretches his legs before him, pretends not to notice the glance max gives him. yunho pretends not to catch the lip twitch either, closes his eyes instead.

“practice, shaman.”

yunho grumbles. “what’s the point if you’re just going to sit there and _nap_?”

yunho hears max hum, amusement touching the short sound, but he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that he is still perfectly composed, features devoid of any outward emotion.

despite himself, despite the boiling rage in his gut, the indifference, the _questions_ , yunho feels his power spread, begins to see the towering, swaying thing that is max’s aura. he latches onto it, easily, unsure of how he began to sync with him so quickly. yunho revels in the calming sway, the relief of his power released, but it is short lived. it takes no more than a few minutes for distractions to weave through his mind—what does max do with all of his time? what was he like before the land became overrun with steel and stone?—

“stop.”

yunho blinks at max, seeing him in too bright evening light.

“you lost focus,” max turns his gaze to the too-still leaves of the holy tree. “that is enough for today.”

yunho leans against the tree, forcing himself out of his daze by staring into the receding sun, and then tries to tamper down the stupid mix of discontent and pride that swells in his throat at max’s next words.

“practice in small amounts each day. it will not be long until you are well accomplished.”

yunho twists his mouth; he wants to say something, wants to tell max that he splinters targets into sawdust without thought these days, tell him that he can move his power with better ease, keep it down without chains—do this _on his own_ —but max has been gone—

and he is gone again.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

yunho can.

barely.

as it stands, yunho finds that he meditates best under the holy tree, but even on his better days his concentration lasts no longer than a full few minutes. distractions break through him like warm knives through butter, even as the waves of magic in him began to rest in a different pattern more reminiscent of the sway in max’s aura. still, the waves are a bit too sharp, jerky at best, like lethargic lightening instead of flowing water. it frustrates him.

it frustrates him more when he comes to the realization that, with max, this tiring push and pull had actually been enjoyable.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

at work, yunho accidentally slices his hand on a papper cutter, blood coating the half finished lamentation in an unexpected gush. it wasn’t deadly, no, but yunho felt a sickening wave of panic as the wound sealed itself before his eyes, only a smear of dried blood left in its wake.

yunho’s entire soul shudders, and he leaves his work to lock himself in the supply closet, the same one in which everything tilted itself upside down.

that fact doesn’t help as it crosses his mind, and yunho abandons the meditative breaths, snaps a chain in place instead.

it backfires. a pulse rocks his frame. yunho’s vision blurs and he feels ugly desperation climb up his ribcage as he reels. the desperation makes him think of the innocents. it makes him think of max. unbidden, he recalls the vampire’s aura and it’s calming sway, does his best to force his purity to respond in like. the magic in him shakes, fights him as a feral animal would, wild and without remorse.

yunho undoes the chain.

the magic in him swirls around in quick, bright waves of violet for a moment, slowly submits, resettles into his skin with a loud thrum that that ricochets in the back of his mind.

shaken, stunned, unsure of himself, yunho returns to the front desk in a stupor.

“yunho? is everything alright?”

yunho swallows a sob of relief, straightens himself to flash a short, reassuring smile at mr. park, who is watching him with a furrowed brow and a look that yunho doesn’t care to place. yunho gives the first excuse that comes to mind.

“I’m fine. just daydreaming, mr. park, sorry about that.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

max appears on a warm, sticky day, sending an entirely separate flush of warmth up yunho’s spine as he sweeps past him. max’s skin is on display under a silk white t-shirt, legs going on in dark, slim fitting slacks. stupidly, vividly, and wondrously offensive, yunho remembers what max had felt like under his touch—every detail of hard muscle and tawny, velvet skin. every look max had given him.

yunho feels too hot, his own t-shirt and shorts seemingly suffocating.

max sits beneath the holy tree, arm resting casually against his raised knee. yunho is hit with the lingering sense of familiarity again, a sudden onslaught of wing beats dancing in his head and echoing heavily in his chest. his body seems to thrum with his mind, teetering on the edge of remembrance.

slowly, yunho brings himself to settle beside max, this time atop an old, unused cushion from the prayer-shrine, something dangerously on the tip of his memory, blurry with it's intensity. the wing beats begin to become too much; yunho tosses the feeling, locks it away and focuses on max’s aura with a ferocity.

if max is detecting the waves rolling off of yunho, and yunho is sure that he is, his aura doesn’t show or react to it. it floats lazily as yunho finds himself slipping into sync. the drilling in his mind subsides to a dull hum, gone now, violet purity replacing it in his mind.

in moments his waves lose their lightning edge, become an imitation of max’s in his billowing patterns.

yunho realizes with a start that he is keenly aware of max’s energy, the surprise so sudden that a hiccup of a sound flies out of him, so minute that he’s not even sure it actually happened. the sway of max’s aura appears in his minds eye in a way it hasn’t before: with a wave of blinding sunspots. a pulse. yunho focuses so intently on it that he when he feels the pulse again his own power reacts with an electrifying jolt, shifts and shapes itself until it flows against the ebb of max’s.

yunho lets his eyes fly open, confusion rushing through him so quickly, almost as quick as that blurry sense of memory returns to him. his breath catches high in his throat. something is—

max is—

yunho turns to him, his brow furrowing as the memory pushes at him harder, but max’s expression is blatantly open; appraising and hesitant, tentative, even.

“what is this?” yunho asks, voice raspy, caught on air that won’t go down. the wing beats are beginning to return. his magic is beginning to—max’s eyes slide away to the well-house, and yunho wants to _swear_ as desperation clouds him.

he stands, unsure of when he started shaking. he feels dizzy, spaced, like he’s looking at max through frosted glass.

“it isn’t really any of your concern.” max’s tone makes yunho want to throttle him.

he snaps his magic instead, lets it lash against that sunspot on the vampire’s aura so violently that black and violet swirl in his vision.

“ _what is this?_ ”

“no.”

yunho shoots his power at him again. the déjà vu consuming him _ripples_.

the space before him shatters; shatters again.

yunho sees.

 

 


End file.
